Blue Skies & Apple Pies
by sodium-amytal
Summary: After the events of Felina, Jesse tracks Saul down to Omaha, Nebraska and asks him to find Brock. What happens instead gives Jesse a chance at a normal life, the happily-ever-after he's been searching for in a post-Heisenberg haze. But Jesse's haunted by his past in more ways than one, and it's not long before the ghost of Walter White threatens to unravel Jesse's new life.
1. Over the Hills and Far Away

_The world breaks everyone, and afterward, many are stronger at the broken places._

~ Ernest Hemingway

* * *

Jesse's never fared well under stress, and right now his brain feels like it's bathing in a pressure cooker.

Walter White is dead.

The psycho bastards who kept Jesse locked away in chains are lying in bloody ribbons on the ground.

Sirens and flashing lights are closing in.

And Jesse knows absolutely nothing about where he is right now.

But he has a car, which is a serious improvement over his situation the last—Christ, how long has he been here?

What Jesse does know without a doubt is that he needs to flee the scene before the cops show up. This is not a good location to lay low until he comes up with a plan. A Neo-Nazi drug den hosting a shootout and the body of drug lord Heisenberg? This place will be crawling with cops in seconds. And there's no way Jesse's going to waste time explaining he was sold into meth-slavery by Mr. White. Not without a lawyer present, that's for damn sure.

_Better call Saul._

Jesse wonders if Saul's even alive at this point. Or is he holed up in some shithole prison after the investigation—because there had to be an investigation, right? Two DEA agents don't just vanish without some sort of follow-up.

It doesn't matter now. He needs to leave, pronto.

Jesse's had considerable success evading the police when he has to, so he races down the dark, dirt road and gets the hell out of dodge.

* * *

Jesse knows he's going to need a new identity until the Heisenberg case blows over. Since Mr. White's gone—Jesse's chest ripples involuntarily—the police will hunger to slap cuffs on a live suspect. They'll dig and dig into every crevice of Mr. White's life and unearth his secrets.

He still has the number Saul gave him for the extractor, someone to erase him off the grid and give him a fresh start. But that number is locked away safe and sound in his house, which, if the cops start digging, will also be crawling with police. Time is of the essence here.

He follows the signs back to civilization, careful not to drive too fast or too slow, keeping off the main roads. Mr. Inconspicuous. He's thankful for the cloak of darkness, though, which makes his journey easier.

Jesse's been on the run before, but this is the first time he's been completely isolated from everyone else. At least before he'd had Mr. White or Saul to contact if things went south. Now, he's truly on his own.

All throughout the drive back to Albuquerque, Jesse's eyes keep darting back and forth.

Yeah, he's a little paranoid.

Jesse does, however, casually drive by the familiar strip mall that once housed Saul Goodman's office. Gone is the kitschy Lady Liberty balloon and the loud, extravagant sign. The office is vacated—as if he never existed.

Jesse grips the steering wheel tighter as agony rips through him.

He's not sure what he was expecting when he pulls up to his old home at 9809 Margo Street. Maybe police presence or graffiti scrawled on the exterior. Some sign of defacement or vandalism, at least. But, no, Jesse's house is as pristine as it was the day he left it.

He gets out of the car and heads for the door. Upon patting his pockets, he realizes, oh yeah, he doesn't have a key. He's going to have to break in to his own house.

The hits just keep coming.

He keeps to the shadows, sneaking around the back of the building. He finds a loose window he can wiggle open and climb through. Jesse drops feet-first into the kitchen, his aching bones protesting. It takes him a moment to gather his bearings, head swirling with disorientation. He feels unusually weak, his energy drained like an abcess.

He should probably eat something.

The food in the fridge has long since expired. Jesse rummages through the cabinets in search of something loaded with enough preservatives to last through the nuclear apocalypse. He finds a can of Chef Boyardee. After living on scraps, it fills him up pretty quickly. That doesn't stop him from heating up another can though.

He doesn't have a clue what he looks like, but the foul stench he's smelling probably isn't the house. Ugh. Jesse tosses his old clothes—no, _Todd's_ clothes—into the garbage before crawling into the shower.

He always liked relaxing under the hot spray and getting his thoughts in order, but he doesn't have time to relax. He showers on auto-pilot, his mind blissfully blank. Grief paralyzes, and he knows it. There will be time to break down later when he's safe from the epicenter of this clusterfuck.

Jesse doesn't look at himself in the mirror when he's finished and doesn't bother shaving. If the cops have his picture, they're definitely not looking for a guy with this much facial hair. He finds clean clothes in the closets and drawers. He's in the middle of pulling on a pair of jeans when he hears a clatter downstairs.

His heart pounds in his chest. He flattens himself against the wall by the door. Jesse's mind races with panic. Could the cops have found him already? No, impossible. They couldn't have traced him back to Mr. White that quickly. Cops are good—they're not instantaneous.

Unless... unless Mr. White didn't die right away. What if he gave up Jesse's name to the police or paramedics or whoever got to him first?

But cops can't just sneak into your place and wreck your shit. They have to announce themselves, and Jesse sure as shit didn't hear, "Police!" or any sort of warning. So it's probably just an intruder downstairs. No big deal.

Jesse scans the room for a formidable weapon and comes up hilariously short. All he's got is a plastic _Rock Band_ guitar. That's gonna have to do for now.

He cracks the door open and peers out. Jesse never turned the lights on when he came inside—best not to draw attention if someone's watching the house—so it's ridiculously dark. Even with minimal light, he can make out a vague, shadowy shape moving around in the foyer. He can't see the glint of a knife or a gun on the intruder, but that doesn't mean they're not armed.

The intruder doesn't seem to be ransacking the place or stealing anything though. Actually, they seem _scared_. Do neighborhood kids dare each other to spend a night here with the ghosts that haunt its walls?

Jesse keeps watching, his heart thrumming in his ears. The stranger stumbles over something and hisses, "Shit!" Jesse feels the hair on the back of his neck stand up, because he _knows_ that voice.

It's Badger.

What the hell is Badger doing here?

Jesse sets his weapon down and nudges the door open, just enough to crawl through. "Badger?" he whispers through his teeth.

The intruder startles, and his head whirls to the source of the sound. His voice is shaky with disbelief, and, yep, that's Badger. "Jesse? Is that you?"

Jesse rises up and peers over the balcony railing.

That's when Badger starts rushing up the stairs.

Oh God. Jesse backs away, bracing himself for something awful. But Badger just throws his arms around Jesse and hugs him for all he's worth. It's a little awkward, but it's the most meaningful interaction he's had in a long time, and damn if it doesn't make him tear up a bit.

"Dude! Where have you been? I thought you were a goner, bro!"

"Yeah, me too." Jesse's voice crackles in his throat like old paper.

Badger finally releases Jesse from the embrace. "Almost didn't recognize you. What's with the beard?"

Jesse shrugs, avoids that subject entirely. "What're you doing here?"

"I saw a car outside, thought somebody was tryin' to rob the place."

"You watch my house?"

"I drive by every night," Badger says, like that's not crazy at all.

Jesse's brow creases in confusion, and it hurts his face. He winces at the pain. He turns away and heads back into his room. Regardless of Badger's reappearance in Jesse's life, he still needs a new identity. He's officially on the run.

Badger follows him like a loyal puppy. "So where've you been, man? You been hidin' out from the law?"

Jesse pulls open the bureau drawers and starts tossing clothes into a duffel bag. "It's—whatever. It doesn't matter."

"Seriously? I haven't heard from you in, like, six months. What've you been up to?"

"Six months?" Jesse turns to look at him. "That's how long I've been gone?"

Badger's eyes widen. "Yeah, you don't—you don't know?"

Jesse shakes his head, lets it all sink in. He'd been in that torture pit for half a year. Christ, no wonder Badger looked like he'd seen a ghost. Jesse feels dead on his feet himself.

He digs through the drawers and finds the number where he thought it would be—on the back of Saul Goodman's business card.

"What happened to you?" Badger asks, like he knows _something_ dark and awful sank its claws into Jesse's world.

A flicker of macabre memories echoes in his head. Jesse bites his lips together, shakes his head again as if that will dispel the gory slideshow. He stuffs the card into his jeans' pocket and continues packing. "I need a favor."

Badger straightens up. "You name it."

Jesse won't be able to drive that car for long. Too risky. Odds are it belonged to one of the psychos at the compound, so there'll be an APB on that thing quicker than Jesse can blink. And Jesse's not swapping license plates and adding yet another crime to his mile-long rap sheet.

"I'm gonna call this number"—Jesse pats the card through his pocket—"and you're gonna take me to the address the guy gives me. Then you're gonna forget you saw me if the cops ask you anything."

"You're leaving again?" Badger whines. "But you just got here!"

Jesse whirls around to face him. "Do you have any idea how much shit I'm in right now? Mr. White's asshole brother-in-law is dead in a ditch somewhere out in the desert! If the cops know I was there when it happened, they're gonna come lookin' for me! I got my prints and DNA all over the compound I was at, with a meth lab that's been sendin' Blue Sky all over!"

Badger's mouth twists in contemplation. "What about Saul? He got me out of a pretty tight jam. Maybe he could do some good for you."

Jesse shuts his eyes as if in pain. "I drove by his place. It's gone. _He's_ gone. Talkin' to the cops is not an option anymore. I just gotta go off the grid."

Badger opens his mouth like he's going to argue the point, but closes it. Wise. "I guess that's good. I mean, after what happened to Andrea..."

The hole in his chest aches and screams at the excruciating memory.

"They might come after you or the kid, y'know?"

_They_ won't, but the cops might. And he'll only wish he was dead.

But Brock... God, Brock had been the only thing keeping Jesse alive down there. What if he could do something for the kid? What if Jesse could find him and make the best of their lives? To be alone with his thoughts would be a slow death sentence. But Brock would force him to stay alive and well for the kid's sake. Something to wake up for...

Jesse pauses, his hands freezing in his sock drawer. If Saul disappeared, he probably went through the same guy Jesse's about to call. If Jesse can track Saul down, maybe he can get Saul to work his magic and find Brock.

It's a hell of a long shot, but it's the only motivation Jesse's got now. Might as well make the best of it.

He looks at Badger. "So, slight change of plans..."

* * *

Ed, the extractor, shows up in a red van at the pick-up site and whisks Jesse away to his vacuum repair shop. It looks about as inviting on the outside as it is on the inside. It's dark and drab and filled with vacuums, and Jesse doesn't want to stay any longer than he has to.

"You're a little hot right now," Ed's explaining after snapping Jesse's photo, "so it might take a day or two to get you situated." He pulls up a driver's license with Jesse's newly-taken photograph on the screen. Jesse moves closer to read the print, to see what state he'll be shipped off to. Alaska.

Loneliness blows over Jesse's heart like a cold gust. He remembers reading something about how seasonal depression is more common the further you get from the equator. As if he's not already at risk for depression, sending him into arctic isolation is like the icing on top of the tragedy cake.

Jesse studies the screen, watches Ed type some commands on the keyboard. "I've got a place downstairs you can stay 'til you're ready to go," Ed says. Jesse's barely listening, his mind spiralling off into infinite directions. His pulse jumps, anxiety ratcheting up his heart rate. How the fuck is he going to pull this off? He's never been smooth or casual when the pressure's on. Except that one time he traded meth for gasoline, but only because he dazzled the poor girl into the deal.

Ed shows him the stairway to the downstairs "living quarters," which fulfills neither of those descriptions. But the place looks like a Hyatt compared to the dank underground pit Jesse called home for six months. At least there's a working toilet.

"You just make yourself comfortable, and I'll call you if I need you," Ed says. "I gotta take a leak."

Jesse watches him cross the floor and disappear out of sight. He hears the distant sound of a door closing.

Time for action.

Jesse leaves his bag by the stairs and makes a mad dash for the computer. He keeps his steps light in case Ed can hear the transfer of motion. He thinks this would be a good time for the _Mission: Impossible_ theme music to start playing. Yeah, Jesse's kind of a nerd.

He's pleased to find that Ed hasn't shut the computer down, nor has it gone to screensaver. That means Jesse probably won't need to type in a password to access anything. He takes his chances anyway, because no one keeps secrets in their drawers anymore; they're all on the computer.

Jesse clicks through the menu bar at the top of the screen, looking for some sort of clue. He clicks "Open" and opens the file browser, which doesn't help when he doesn't know _where_ to look. He clicks on the Windows logo at the left-hand corner of the screen. There's a search box at the bottom, but Jesse knows anything you type in there gets logged. So the next time Ed goes to search for something in Windows, he'll see whatever Jesse searches for too.

But Jesse ought to be out of here by then. It's a calculated risk, and Jesse's been taking plenty of them today.

So he types in "Saul Goodman."

For a few brief moments, nothing comes up, and Jesse's heart drops like a stone. But then the computer spits out a handful of results. He doesn't know where to start, so he just clicks on the first one.

Pay dirt.

It's a .jpg image of Saul's new license, complete with new, falsified information just like Jesse's own. He recognizes the picture immediately. Jesse's hands reach out over the desk, scrambling for a pen and paper. He finds a sticky note and a blunt-edged pencil. That'll work.

Saul's new moniker is Saul McGill—creative, huh?—and he's currently living in the scenic, bustling metropolis of Omaha, Nebraska. Jesse's hand shakes as he copies the address down. He thinks about typing in Mr. White's name, just to get a glimpse of the life Walt lived while Jesse felt like dying, but there's no time.

He hears a toilet flush. Jesse shoves the sticky note in his pocket and closes off the search windows. He doesn't have enough time to clear all the evidence of his query, but that's okay, because he's picking up his bag and descending down the stairs by the time Ed opens the door.

* * *

Jesse can't sleep that night, though his body and mind crave rest. The solitude and silence in the room reminds him too much of the compound. So Jesse just lies awake on the bed, seeking shapes in the swirls and ridges on the ceiling. The jittery panic of epinephrine won't let him relax enough to sleep. He once watched a program on the Discovery Channel about how the brain responds under stress, how the fight-or-flight response makes your body its bitch. Jesse's not a scientist, so he doesn't understand _how_ adrenaline works, just that it _does_. And he's been working off a seemingly-limitless supply of it for the past few hours now, and probably will be until he feels safe enough to bring it all crashing down.

So, sleep? Not happening tonight.

Jesse surmises the adrenaline is what's keeping the agony at bay. There's going to be hell to pay when the stress-induced fog finally fades from his head, but for now he's grateful his brain can detach from trauma long enough to power him through the storm.

With bleary eyes, he watches the sun rise through the tiny window. At some point during the day—the absence of clocks has Jesse in constant disorientation—Ed grants him reprieve.

"Good news, you're not as hot as I thought," he says, coming down the staircase. "Looks like I'm gonna be gettin' you outta here by noon, if you're ready."

Jesse feels his heart leap in something resembling joy. "Yeah, but, uh, I already got a ride. So don't worry about it."

Ed lifts an eyebrow. "You sure? Just 'cause you're not on a Most Wanted list doesn't mean you still can't get pinched."

"I'm good," Jesse says, shaking his head. "Thanks, though."

Ed gives him a meaningful look before heading upstairs.

They go their separate ways a little after noon, just as Ed had predicted. Jesse slings his bag over his shoulder and sets out on the dirt road. Before placing the call to Ed, Jesse had picked up a cheap burner phone with which to call Badger and set up a meeting. He digs the phone out of his pocket and punches in Badger's number. "Yo."

"Who is this?"

"It's me, you idiot. I'm ready. You remember the rendezvous point?"

"Yeah."

"Meet me there in, like, five minutes. But fuel up first. We got a long drive ahead of us."

"Alright, road trip!"

* * *

They cross the state line into Colorado before Badger complains that he's tired. So Jesse pulls over at the first sleazy, no-tell motel they find. Standard fare for truckers, adulterers, and fugitives. Jesse's glad the place takes cash and doesn't ask questions. Shit, he probably wouldn't even need a pulse to check in here.

Badger marvels at the flickering neon sign above the awning. "They got color TV, man!"

The lap of luxury.

The woman behind the desk gives them a room in the back, and Jesse collapses onto the bed when they make it inside. Badger switches on the TV—which boasts an impressive ten channels—to some lame game show. It's not even midnight yet, but it feels like that cusp of late night/early morning where obstacles seem insurmountable, the world too cruel and vicious to endure. Jesse lets a couple of tears escape, too broken to cry properly.

He doesn't remember falling asleep, but when he opens his eyes again it's light out. Badger's digging through a grease-stained McDonald's bag. Jesse yawns, groans, rolls over onto his back. His muscles ache as if waking from a deep sleep. "What time is it?" he mumbles.

"Like, a little after five."

"In the morning?"

Badger shakes his head. "You were sacked out, bro," he says around a mouthful of fries. He fishes into the bag for the burger and tosses it at Jesse. It lands on the mattress and bounces once before settling near Jesse's hand. The wrapper's still warm. "No tomatoes, extra cheese. Just how you like it."

Jesse can't remember the last time he ate a hamburger. He tears into it. Each bite is like a burst of flavor to taste buds long dulled by bland, lackluster rations. He demolishes the burger in about thirty seconds. He's licking ketchup off of his fingers when Badger says, "You want your fries?"

Badger doesn't have to ask twice.

Jesse has no regrets about his moment of gluttony, even when his stomach feels stretched past the point of comfortable, because he hasn't had a decent meal in six months, god damn it.

"Where'd you get all this money?" he asks, because Badger was the one to pony up the cash to pay for the trip to Ed's.

Badger rummages through the bag for the last few straggler fries. "Heisenberg."

Something in Jesse's chest tears open at the name. "He just gave you money?"

"In exchange for a favor, yeah."

"What kind of favor?" He shouldn't want to know, but morbid curiousity compels him to ask anyway. Maybe he's a masochist.

Badger shrugs. "He paid me and Pete some fat stacks to pretend to be assassins." He grins. "It was awesome."

Jesse wonders about that, then shuts off that avenue entirely. No good will come from dwelling on thoughts of Mr. White.

They get back on the road and drive until about midnight when they finally roll into Omaha. The city lights are bright and energetic, a stark contrast to the black hole Jesse feels inside. Vibrant blues and reds gleam from neon signs inside and atop buildings. Jesse finds himself gawking, gazing up at the majestic structures as they pass by.

Saul's place isn't too hard to find; Jesse doesn't know how to feel about that, but he figures it means nothing since Badger's using a GPS to navigate. Saul lives in a modest little home in a quaint neighborhood outside of downtown. Lush trees spring from the ground like armed guards, their foilage various shades of red and orange and yellow. The front lawn is meticulously kept and trimmed, and Jesse's not sure why that surprises him. There's a sleek silver Pontiac G6 parked in the driveway—no tongue-in-cheek license plates this time—so Jesse figures Saul's home.

Badger rolls to a stop alongside the curb, staring at the house. "It's pretty late, dude. You wanna find a place to crash and just come back later?"

Jesse prefers not to be a colossal dick by banging on the door before the sun's even up, but he's running out of fucks to give. And Saul might not be there when they come back. He's waited long enough. "He'll talk to me."

"You don't think the neighbors'll freak and call the cops?"

"If he tells me to fuck off, I'll leave," Jesse says, "but he won't. He'll remember me."

Badger shrugs. "Hey, it's up to you. But if someone calls the cops, you're on your own."

Jesse nods and opens the passenger door. He walks up the cobblestone walkway and rings the doorbell.

* * *

Saul opens his eyes around 12:17 in the morning. Something woke him up, but he doesn't know _what_. He sticks a hand underneath his pillow and feels for his cell phone. The phone stays silent, even after he manages to turn the screen on. He squints, the light nearly blinding him in the dark, but he's able to make out vague shapes on the screen. None of them indicate any text messages, emails, or phone calls.

His brain kicks on, and he thinks the dog might be a bit smarter than him at this hour. Bark Lee has already hopped off of the bed, barking down the hallway with his snout stuck through the gap in the bedroom door. So maybe the dog isn't smarter than Saul. Whatever, two heads are better than one.

He hears a distant ringing sound, and Bark Lee yaps again. Saul says, "Oh my _God_," out loud, because, seriously, is that the goddamn doorbell? He's murdering whoever woke him up and burying them in his yard. There is no excuse for this. Something better be _on fire_.

He staggers his way down the stairs to the front door. Bark Lee trots behind him, his dog tags jingling. Saul throws the door open. His heart crawls into his throat when he sees Jesse Pinkman standing there.

The kid's got a lot more hair on him, but that's definitely Jesse. There's no mistaking those wide blue eyes and the way they seem to beg for help. Then Saul gets a good look at him, and, _oh Jesus_. Jesse's entire frame is fragile and underfed, as if a slight breeze might carry him away. His eyes, once so full of life and emotion, look vacant and empty, like a dead battery. Two long white scars cut through the right side of his face; one starting at his eyebrow and ending at the middle of his cheekbone, the other slashed across his cheek. Another scar cuts across the bridge of his nose. The left side bears two smaller crescents on his brow and beneath his eye.

Hard to believe he had once been pretty, handsome in a boy-ish way. Maybe he still is, underneath all the decay.

"Jesse?" Saul croaks, his voice rough with sleep.

Jesse half-smiles. "Yo."

"'Yo'? Is that all you—How the hell did you get here? How did you know where to find me?" Saul has a thousand more questions running through his mind, but those seem pretty important right now.

Jesse rubs the back of his neck, and the familiar gesture tugs at Saul's heart. "It's a long story."

Saul sticks his head out the door and sees an unfamiliar car idling by the curb. "Who is that? Is that—"

"It's Badger," Jesse cuts in, as if Saul might have said another name. "Can you let me in so we can talk?"

Saul would rather shut the door in Jesse's face so he can sleep, but, honestly, he kinda missed the kid. So he sighs loudly—because Jesse needs to know Saul's put out about the inconvenience—and lets Jesse step inside.

Saul shuts the door and watches Jesse look around in awe. "Nice place." His gaze settles on Bark Lee, who's sitting on his haunches and watching Jesse with a curious head tilt. "You got a dog?"

"Nah, he's the neighbors'. I'm just dogsitting for a couple days." Enough with the pleasantries. Saul steps in front of Jesse and says, "But let's cut to the chase here: how'd you find me?"

"Your, uh, your quick vanish guy. Ed."

Saul blinks. "He just _told_ you?" Confidentiality is a dying art, it seems.

Jesse huffs a harsh-sounding laugh. "Hell no. I did some, uh, sleuthing."

Saul opens his mouth before he realizes he doesn't want to know. "Okay, fine, Nancy Drew. What's so damn important you have to show up here past midnight? I need my beauty sleep, y'know."

Jesse takes a couple tentative steps over to the couch, like he's waiting for permission. Or maybe he's afraid of dogs. But Jesse sits down and says, "I need your help."

"Those days are long gone, kid. I'm just a lowly paralegal now. I can't pull your ass outta whatever fire you got goin' on."

Jesse shakes his head. "I don't need you to save me. I need you to find somebody."

"Who, your ex-boyfriend slash meth chef Walter White? Because if you didn't already know, he's dead."

Jesse flinches almost imperceptibly. "No, it's not—it's not him. I want you to find Brock Cantillo."

Saul's not forgetting that name anytime soon. "The kid?"

Jesse nods, a faraway look in his eyes.

"Is he in danger?"

"I don't—I don't think so. But I wanna find him so I can adopt him."

Saul chokes on a laugh he tries to swallow back, because, really? "You're joking, right?" The pained crease of Jesse's brow says he's absolutely _not_ joking. "No, of course not, you're totally serious." The way the moonlight hits Jesse's face makes his scars seem to come alive, squirming across his face like worms. Almost daring Saul to deny him anything, to break the kid's spirits after his body's been battered and broken.

Saul breathes out a long, deep sigh. "So what happened? Did she move away and take the kid with her?"

Jesse closes his eyes but moves nothing else. Eerie. Saul feels a chill crawl up his spine. "Brock's the only one left," Jesse says, and, wow, that sentence is a loaded gun.

Saul rubs a hand over his mouth. "Okay, so what's the next logical step here? I mean, have you given this any thought at all past this point? Where do you think the kid would be?"

Jesse shrugs lamely. "Foster care?"

"Pardon the insensitivity here, but Mexican families tend to be pretty large. I guarantee he's got a relative willing and able to take him in. Now, how are you—Andrea's addict ex-boyfriend—going to explain why you're a better candidate for raising this kid than his grandmother or aunt or uncle or whatever? I mean, c'mon, kid. You met her in an NA meeting. Somethin' tells me you won't win over an adoption lawyer with that little detail."

Jesse doesn't answer, just exhales and slowly turns his head away. Saul's a fan of the tough love method, but here it just seems like cruelty. That doesn't stop him from continuing. "Also, since the shit hit the fan with the Heisenberg case, you, young master Pinkman, are going to be, shall we say, a person of interest. You give anybody your real name, and it's bye-bye magical land of parenthood: hello prison."

"What if I had a new identity?" Jesse argues.

"Then your only leverage is gone, and you've got just as much a chance of adopting that kid as I do: none."

Jesse breathes out a sigh, staring at nothing in particular. Bark Lee yawns like he's bored and settles down on all fours.

Saul looks back to Jesse. "Even if I was still in the game, I'm not a miracle worker. Face it, kid. This one's just a pipe dream."

The hurt in Jesse's eyes is palpable, as if Saul had reached out and slapped him. His face quivers with emotion, brows drawn tight. Saul wants to comfort him somehow, offer him some sort of lifeline after everything's been ripped away. Because Saul can't be the one to break him.

Saul sits on the edge of the coffee table and gazes at Jesse. "Do you have a place to stay?"

Jesse shakes his head. "There's nothing. No one," he says, almost robotic.

Saul wants to mention that Jesse's still got Badger, but it's a moot point. He wrings his hands. Jesse did drive all the way out here; it would be kind of a dick move to send the kid home at this point. "Alright, maybe—maybe we could work something out. Would you like to stay here and lay low until you get your shit together?"

Jesse locks eyes with him, his eyebrows knitting in disbelief. "For real?"

"Yeah, c'mon, look at this place." Saul throws a hand out to gesture at the expanse of his home. "Way too much room for one person. I could use a little company, and I'm sure you could too."

Jesse looks like he's thinking, which is a step up from the unplugged, dead-eyed expression he had earlier. He nods slowly. "If—if you want me to."

"I want you to stay, Jesse. Just for a little while."

* * *

Jesse fetches his bag from the trunk of Badger's car and bids him farewell. Saul shows Jesse to the guest room upstairs. "Lucky you. You get your own bathroom."

Jesse drops his bag on the floor and sits on the bed. "Don't tell me I'm lucky, Saul." The numbness is slipping away, and the pain feels like it's swallowing him whole. Saul cannot be here for this. No one should see this.

Saul seems to take the hint—thank God he doesn't hover—and moves for the doorway. "You know where to find me if you need anything." Jesse watches him disappear from view, then hears the distant sound of bed springs.

Agony hits Jesse like the crack of a whip. He shuts the bedroom door to ensure his grief is private. His eyes brim with tears, and he staggers, collapses onto the bed as his legs give way beneath him. Jesse tries to keep his breathing steady, but the pain is suffocating, bewildering. He shoves his face into the pillow to quiet the sounds of the sobs wracking his frame. He scrambles for the haze, but the fog is lifting, and Jesse's gaining a startling, awful clarity.

All the strings tethering him to the world have severed. Mr. White is gone. His parents don't care if he lives or dies. Mike is dead. Jane is dead. Andrea is dead. Brock is out of his reach. Jesse has nothing left. No reason to wake up in the morning.

In the end, it seems Jesse will die young and alone and in pain. Poetic justice, he supposes, for all the pain and death he caused in his wretched life. He deserves whatever happens, right?

Jesse curls into a ball and lets the misery have its way with him.


	2. Friends

Jesse wakes up to something—or someone—licking his hand. He pries one eye open and sees the dog at his bedside. The mutt isn't a breed Jesse's ever seen before. He's got fox-like features and coloring, short reddish-brown fur that fades into a white undercoat on the throat, forechest, and chest. There's a US flag handkerchief tied around his neck, just above his collar. His eyes are big, beady, black orbs that remind Jesse of the infamous lines from _Jaws_: _You know the thing about a shark, he's got lifeless eyes, black eyes, like a doll's eye; when he comes at ya, doesn't seem to be livin'._

But this pup looks friendly enough. Jesse risks a scratch behind the dog's ears, and he'd swear he saw the mutt smile. Maybe that's why he smiles himself.

Jesse spends about ten minutes mindlessly petting the dog before he drags himself into the shower. He thinks the hot water and steam might help rejuvenate his weary soul. It doesn't, but he does feel a bit better.

Baby steps.

Jesse wraps a towel around his waist and steps out. When he wipes a hand over the fogged mirror, he recoils at the sight of his reflection.

The scars make his face look like a road map of tragedy. His eyes bear dark, deep circles beneath them, sleep-starved for half a year. His hair is long and matted, beard wild and untamed.

Jesse sighs to himself, hands braced on the sink. What will he do now that he can no longer use his looks to his advantage? He never had much in this life, but his physical gifts were always a card he could use when he needed it. Now... Good fucking luck.

At least he can do something about the beard. Jesse finds a razor in the cabinet and does the best he can.

* * *

Saul hears Jesse's bare feet stepping over the kitchen tile as he's brewing up a pot of coffee. "G'morning. Feel any better?"

Jesse makes a grumbly noise.

"Okay, well, one day at a time, right? You want breakfast?" A chair drags across the floor.

"Yeah, sure," Jesse says, sounding entirely unenthused.

"Hey, don't let me twist your arm." Saul turns to face him, and that's when he sees Jesse's new—er, old—look. Gone is the Grizzly Adams beard, replaced with more familiar stubble. Even his hair's buzzed short to resemble the Jesse Saul knew before Walt sent everything crashing down.

It's a good look for the kid, Saul thinks.

"Wow, look at you all cleaned up! I knew the old Jesse Pinkman was in there somewhere." Jesse barely manages a half-smile, but it's a start. Saul turns back to his coffee pot and pours himself a cup. "So, how'd'ya take your coffee? Personally, I'm a fan of black—just like my men."

Jesse blows air out of his nose in a way Saul thinks is supposed to be a laugh. Saul smiles to himself. "That was a joke. I need a little cream and sugar in my life."

"I don't like coffee," Jesse says after a moment.

"How 'bout orange juice? You like orange juice? I could pour some champagne in it, spice things up a bit. Make you feel like a East Coast millionaire on brunch." Saul knows he's just rambling; it's what he does when he's nervous. And, yeah, he's always been slightly on edge around Jesse, because Jesse's a brooding little firecracker. Saul doesn't know how to get through to someone like that, save for spewing out verbal diarrhea until something prickles a nerve.

Now, more than ever, Saul wishes he knew the proper words to get Jesse talking.

"Orange juice is fine." Jesse's got his head propped against one hand, the other flipping through papers and catalogues in the middle of the dining table.

Saul fetches the carton from the fridge and pours him a glass over ice. "Good choice. You look like you need a lot of vitamin C. Don't want you gettin' scurvy."

Jesse drags the glass closer once it's filled. His brows knit together in confusion. "I thought that was a pirate thing." He doesn't drink, just stares at the drink like it might hold the secrets to life.

"You really wanna take the chance?"

Jesse rubs his thumb over a bead of condensation on the glass before taking a small sip.

"How do you feel about muffins?" Saul asks, moving over to the stove. "Because, not to brag, but I make the best damn muffins in Douglas County. Okay, I'm bragging a little, but I'm allowed to; I won the ribbon."

Jesse's quiet for a moment, then the sound of his laughter fills the air. It's soft and understated, but he's definitely laughing.

"What, you don't believe me?"

"No, I totally believe you," Jesse manages through chuckles. "I just never pictured you being some State Fair prize-winner for muffins."

Saul's life here feels miles away from the one he lived in Albuquerque. Gardening, dogsitting, and baking blueberry muffins is a one-eighty-degree turn from facilitating illegal activities. It's like moving to Omaha turned him into a geriatric old woman; next he'll be screaming at Jesse to turn up the thermostat.

"You won't be laughing when you try them."

"Yeah, I will, 'cause it'll still be funny." This is the first real smile Saul's seen on Jesse's face in ages. He's willing to be the comic relief if it keeps Jesse's spirits up.

Jesse's on his second glass of orange juice when he asks, "So what's with the name? I thought the new identity thing was s'posed to make you harder to find."

"You're assuming either part of my name is real," Saul says, taking the muffins out of the oven.

"Your first name isn't really Saul?" Jesse sounds like he doesn't understand anything anymore.

"You think Irish parents are gonna give their kid a Hebrew name? C'mon."

Jesse chews his bottom lip for a moment. "So the McGill part is real, right?"

"What's in a name anyway?" Saul asks with a shrug. "Shakespeare had it right: 'that which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.'"

Jesse scrunches up his face. "Did you just quote Shakespeare?"

Saul gives him a look as if to say, "What's wrong with that?"

Jesse mouths, "Wow," and shakes his head in disbelief.

Bark Lee's claws clack on the kitchen tile as he trots to his bowl. Jesse watches him. "What's the dog's name?"

"Bark Lee."

"Like Charles Barkley?"

"No, like Geddy Lee." A beat, then: "My neighbors are really big Rush fans. I love 'Fly by Night' as much as the next guy, but not when I can hear it blaring from their place at two in the morning."

Jesse's eyebrows pull together. "So where are they?"

"Council Bluffs. Across the river. They won the lottery a while back and are still finding creative ways to piss away the winnings. This time it's casinos."

"People actually win the lottery?"

"Yep, and the people who win are exactly the kind of people you'd think: rednecks," Saul says, doling the muffins out. Jesse picks one up and sniffs it, curious. "Rednecks like ol' Buck and Billy Ray."

Jesse's mouth drops open. "Fuck you, those are _not_ their real names."

"Says the guy with a friend named Badger."

"It's not like that's on his birth certificate."

Saul just smiles and taps Jesse's plate. "C'mon, kid, eat up. It wouldn't hurt to put some meat on your bones." Jesse plucks at the muffin wrapper and peels it away. He edges off a piece, watches the steam climb out. "It's not gonna bite," Saul says, because Jesse's eyeing the thing like it might come to life and destroy the city.

Jesse pops the morsel into his mouth. He chews it over for a moment before mumbling, "'Sgood."

"See? What'd I tell ya? I went with chocolate chip this time 'cause you seem like you got a sweet tooth. Blueberries don't strike me as your style."

Jesse nods and stuffs another piece into his mouth. There's a smudge of chocolate on his thumb that Saul wants to lick away. He isn't sure why he has that urge, just that he _does_, and he doesn't know how to feel about that. It's not like Jesse isn't attractive, but the last time Saul was in the same room with him Jesse was pointing a gun in his face. Maybe he's got an unexplored fetish; that would explain so much.

But the fire's gone from Jesse's eyes now, no spark of vengeance or righteous anger. Just...nothing. God, Saul's such a sucker for the lost ones.

The moment's over almost as soon as it appeared, because Jesse brings his thumb to his mouth and wraps his lips around the digit. Saul turns his back on him to keep the lecherous thoughts at bay.

After breakfast, Saul's cleaning up the kitchen when Jesse asks, "You work today?"

"Hell no, it's my day off, and I plan to spend it on the couch with my best friend Netflix." He tosses a glance over his shoulder. "You're welcome to join me if you don't have anything better to do."

Jesse shakes his head. Saul bites back the urge to ask, "What happened to you, kid?" because the last time he saw Jesse even half this lifeless was after the death of his girlfriend.

"What do you even watch?"

"Comedies, mostly," Saul says with a shrug. "I miss the eighties like a long lost lover, so most of my queue's made up of John Hughes films and shmaltzy sit-coms."

"Do you ever watch anything, like, from this decade?"

Saul thinks that's a jab at his age or his taste—or both. Bark Lee scampers into the living room and hops onto the empty recliner. "At least he doesn't bitch about my taste in entertainment," Saul argues, looking at the dog for reassurance.

"Because he can't." Jesse smirks, and Saul feels his heart swell in his chest.

"If you think you're too good for _Tommy Boy_, I don't think we can be friends. C'mon, where else you gonna go that has free TV and pizza?"

Jesse thinks about it for a moment and sits on the far end of the couch.

They spend the first half of the afternoon watching feel-good comedies and sharing a pizza. Jesse's quiet and reserved at first, but by the time they're halfway through _Planes, Trains, & Automobiles_ he's laughing like he's been sniffing gas. Saul wants to hold onto the sound as long as he can. He can't remember the last time he ever heard Jesse laugh or saw him smile without a burden of pain behind it.

Saul hopes he can infuse some color into Jesse's dark and dreary world.

A loud rumble sounds from somewhere down the street. Bark Lee's ears perk up. He hops off of the recliner and trots to the front door, screeching as the rumbling gets closer. Jesse makes a face and looks over at Saul. "Is he supposed to scream?"

"Yeah, he does that sometimes."

Jesse blinks.

"Judging from that unnecessarily loud engine, his parents are home."

Jesse rises from the couch, curious, and moves toward the window. He peers out the blinds and says, "Oh my God."

"I warned you." Saul joins him at the window, watching the two men climb out of a Chevy that's seen better days. The faint, tinny sound of Creedence Clearwater Revival blares from the truck's speakers. "Time to meet the neighbors?"

Jesse's first instinct is panic; suspicion and paranoia have served him pretty well since he escaped from Jack's gang. "I—I don't know, maybe we should—"

But Saul's already guiding him to the front door. "Don't worry, they're not the 'squeal like a pig' type of country folk."

Jesse fumbles through his jean pockets for his new ID. There's no way he's giving total strangers his real name. That kind of carelessness would come back to bite him in the ass later. He memorizes the information by the time they're out the door. Jesse lags behind Saul's pace, walking alongside Bark Lee who's trotting down the sidewalk and wagging his tail.

The rednecks live next door in a veritable eyesore of a house with a lawn that's almost as run-down as their truck. Jesse has no idea how he hadn't noticed this place when he first showed up here. Saul's house has a nice little picket fence around it; this one has a wire fence encompassing the backyard, probably for the dog's benefit. The house could use a new coat of paint—or three; it doesn't look like it's seen an update or renovation since the seventies. It's all giving Jesse the skeeves—_Texas Chainsaw Massacre-_shaped skeeves.

One of the rednecks hauls a duffel bag out of the truck bed. He's rounder than the other guy, wearing a worn, faded jean jacket with an eagle emblem on the back. There's a red bandana tied around his head, and a long, ZZ Top-esque beard sprouting from his chin. "You tryin' to stick me with your kid?" Saul cajoles him as they reach the truck.

Bark Lee yaps in recognition and scampers toward the man, who drops his bag to kneel and ruffle the dog's ears. "He didn't give ya too much trouble, did he?"

"Nah, he's a dream." Saul claps a hand on Jesse's shoulder. "This one, I'm not so sure."

The man stands up and offers his hand. "You a friend of Saul's?"

Jesse accepts the handshake. The guy's got a pretty strong grip. "Yeah, I'm, uh, I'm Aaron."

"Buck. Nice to meet ya, Aaron. You from outta town?"

Jesse nods. "Yeah... Alaska."

"Alaska, huh?" the other man says, approaching them. He's tall and lanky, with conservative, salt-and-pepper facial hair. "What brings you all the way here?"

"He's staying with me for a while 'til he gets his proverbial shit together," Saul explains.

"Well, a friend of Saul's is a friend of ours!" The other man shakes Jesse's hand. "Name's Billy Ray. Come on inside," he says, motioning to the house. "We got plenty of beer, if you're thirsty."

This is like the beginning of every backwoods horror movie ever made. Jesse would be so much more wary about this if Saul hadn't vouched for these guys. So Jesse nods and says, "Sure, I guess."

The inside of the house is even more seventies than the exterior. Plaid seems to be the pattern of choice for the couch cushions, and the furniture and floors are old wood. The scent of stale tobacco hangs in the air and sticks in Jesse's throat. He hasn't had a cigarette in about six months, and he wants to gag. Mounted on the walls are a couple deer heads with various accessories hanging from their antlers. Kind of degrading, Jesse thinks. You live your life as a majestic deer out in the forest, minding your own business, then someone shoots you and uses your head as a coat rack.

The refrigerator door opens with a sucking pop. Billy Ray reaches inside and grabs a couple beer bottles, hands one to Jesse.

"So how was the trip?" Saul asks, crossing the dining room floor and pulling up a chair alongside Jesse.

"We won some, we lost some. We won some more." Billy Ray withdraws a lump of cash from his jeans' pocket.

Saul chuckles. "Some people have all the luck, huh?"

Jesse remembers when he had fat stacks to throw around, though his were acquired through less legitimate means. He twists open his bottle and takes a long swig, hoping to drown out the memory. "Ain't that the truth."

Buck and Billy Ray focus their attention on Jesse. Even Bark Lee's staring at him. Jesse shrinks a little in his seat. "So, Aaron," Buck says, "what'd you do in Alaska?"

Jesse takes another sip, buying time. "Wood-working."

"Work with your hands, huh?"

Jesse half-smiles, but there's no joy. "Yeah."

"You know anything about cars?" Billy Ray asks.

"They go 'vroom'?"

Buck and Billy Ray get a kick out of that one. Saul smiles to himself. "Well, that's a shame," Billy Ray says, "'cause I got a buddy who could use a hand in his shop fixin' cars."

Jesse's brow furrows. Did he just fail some sort of test? "I could learn. Maybe. It's not that hard, right?" If he can cook ace-level meth, he can repair cars.

Billy Ray and Buck look at each other. Jesse wonders what kind of silent conversation they're having through their facial expressions. "It's up to Duane," Billy Ray says, "but I don't see the harm in bringin' you by sometime. But there's one condition."

"Yeah?"

"You gotta come fishin' with us tomorrow mornin'."

Jesse looks over at Saul. "Are they for real?"

Saul huffs a laugh. "It's sort of a rite of passage for them. If you wanna get their seal of approval, you gotta catch a fish."

This feels like an elaborate joke, like he's on a redneck version of _Candid Camera_, but, hey, when in Rome. "Sure, whatever," Jesse says, shrugging his shoulders. A job would be a great distraction, something Jesse desperately needs. He can't just lounge on the couch with Saul all day watching movies. Saul has to go to work at some point, and what then? Jesse doesn't want to be alone in that house with nothing but his thoughts.

"You seem like a real team player," Buck says. "How'd you ever get hooked up with Saul? You a student of his?"

Jesse's heart does a panicked flail in his chest, because _what the fuck are they talking about_? But Saul picks up the conversational baton like it's not even a thing: "Yeah, he was a great kid. Real history buff."

Jesse takes another swig off of the bottle to disguise the way his hands are shaking.

"I bet Alaska's a hell of a change from Phoenix, huh?" Billy Ray asks Jesse. It takes Jesse a moment to realize Saul must have told them he came from Phoenix. Would have been nice for Saul to brief Jesse on his little fabrications beforehand instead of dropping him headfirst into it.

"Yeah, totally..."

* * *

"What the hell was that?" Jesse snaps at Saul as they're walking back to Saul's place. "Could you have picked a worse cover story?"

"Actually, yeah. The truth would've been pretty bad, don't you think?"

Jesse makes an angry grunting noise. "A teacher? Really?"

Saul can't help but feel a little offended. "What, you don't think I could be a teacher? It's not exactly rocket science, lemme tell ya."

Jesse's mouth twitches into some sort of scowl. "And that's what you went with," he grumbles, like he's not even listening. "That was your story before I ever showed up, huh? Wow. From Phoenix too?"

"That was my mistake," Saul groans. "I screwed up once and said I used to live in a desert. So, yeah, not a lot of choices on that front. I don't imagine you could do much better at creating a fake life with few holes?" He holds the door for Jesse when they reach his house, because, yeah, he's a gentleman sometimes. Jesse storms inside, oblivious to his chivalry. "Hey, c'mon, kid, what's the big deal?"

Jesse whirls to face him. "You had to pick the one thing I just—" He stops himself, rubs a hand over his mouth as if he's said too much already. "It hasn't even been..." A choking sob cuts off Jesse's words, and, wow, Saul feels fucking horrible. Because Walt was always Jesse's teacher, wasn't he? Memories are all Jesse has now, and Saul's muddied the pool. Or maybe Jesse doesn't want to remember, and Saul's cover story is salt in the wound.

"I'm sorry," Saul says, because he doesn't know what else to say. He finds more words floating around the periphery of his brain, but he's not sure if they'll be helpful. That doesn't stop him from saying them: "Hey, at least I said you were a good student, y'know?"

Jesse's angry face falls into something devastated. Saul wants to reach out and hold him together before he crumbles. "Aw, jeez, kid, I'm sorry," Saul says, moving closer. "I didn't mean to—You know I'm not the best at this whole sensitivity thing."

Jesse wipes his eyes with his hand. "It's not your fault. You didn't know." His voice quakes like he's holding back a wave of emotion.

"Maybe I shouldn't go with the first idea that pops in my head, huh?"

That gets a smile, albeit a weak one, but Saul can work with that.

* * *

Saul's just started to doze off when Jesse starts screaming and sobbing in the other bedroom. To Jesse's credit, it sounds like he's trying to muffle the noise with the pillows. Saul can still hear him though, so Jesse's not doing too great a job at being quiet. It's times like these he wishes Bark Lee was here so the mutt could go in and comfort Jesse instead. But it looks like the baton's passed to Saul.

He drags himself out of bed and down the dark hallway, stumbles into the guest bedroom and only stubs his toe once. Jesse's curled up in the bed like a sobbing, anguished shrimp. Saul sighs, lingering in the doorway. "You okay?"

Jesse stops shaking for a moment, perhaps chagrined that he has an audience for his private show of pain. "It was just a dream," he mumbles. His legs fight against the tangled snarl of the blankets. "I'm fine."

"You sounded like you were being murdered."

Jesse doesn't say anything.

Saul takes a couple steps into the bedroom. He doesn't know how much comfort he can offer before stepping over some invisible boundary. "Do you wanna talk about it?"

Jesse goes still, as if the subject is utterly forbidden.

Saul's guessing that's a no. He moves closer to the bed, standing near the empty space beside Jesse. "Can you get back to sleep?"

"I'm fine," Jesse insists, but he shifts in a way that leaves Saul a little more room on the other side of the bed, a silent invitation to join him here.

Saul stares at the empty half of the bed, then his gaze jumps to Jesse's tortured form. He sighs out a deep breath and carefully lies down next to Jesse. Jesse doesn't seem to mind, seeing as he's not making disgusted, aggrieved noises or trying to climb out of bed. So that's good. Saul gets the urge to say something. He doesn't know how to handle things like this, but maybe his presence is enough for Jesse. A simple assurance that nothing bad is going to happen, that no one is going to hurt him.

The tense line of Jesse's body relaxes a little, sinks into the sheets. The rhythm of his breathing evens out into something calmer. So when Jesse tips back and leans his weight against Saul, Saul thinks he's done something right.

* * *

Jesse wakes up ungodly early for the fishing trip the next morning. He's a little embarrassed about the fact that Saul's sound asleep next to him in the bed, but it's not like Jesse invited him in. It's been over half a year since he felt the warmth of someone beside him while he slept; he missed it. He doesn't care that it's Saul Goodman, of all people. It's real, and it's something, and that's more than he's had in a long time.

The drive to the marina takes a bit longer than Jesse thought it would, but the soundtrack of guitar-driven rock helps pass the time. Jesse sorts through the tapes in the box in the back seat, curious if there's anything he recognizes. He finds a lot of classic rock—Led Zeppelin, Stevie Ray Vaughn, Ted Nugent, Rush, Bob Seger—but the closest thing to country music is Kenny Rogers. Interesting.

Buck and Billy Ray take the boat onto a tranquil lake when they reach the marina. The sun's rising languidly in the sky, casting a marvelous sheen onto the water.

"So, uh, you guys know you can just buy fish, right?" Jesse asks. He figures if they're lottery winners they can afford to skip the manual labor.

"But where's the fun in that?" Jesse winces as Buck hooks a worm through the collar. "Don't tell me you're squeamish."

Worms wriggle around in the bait can, oblivious to their impending fate.

"You ever fish before?" Billy Ray asks. He takes Jesse's fishing rod and sets up the lure.

Jesse shakes his head.

"No shit? Daddy never took you out on the lake for a fishing lesson?"

Jesse frowns. "There's a lot of things he never did." A bird flies overhead and chirps. "My parents are more _Silver Spoons_ than _Beverly Hillbillies_."

"Sorry to hear that, kid," Billy Ray says. "Better late than never, though, right?" He hands Jesse the fishing rod once it's set up. "You know how to cast, don't ya?"

"Yeah, just...throw it out, reel it in. Easy."

Buck chuckles. "It's a little more complicated than that."

Jesse feels a pang, something familiar pushing at the periphery of his memory. Billy Ray misreads Jesse's hesitance and slips the rod out of his hands. "Here, lemme show ya." He points the rod at the vast expanse of lake before them, flicks the line out a good distance away. The lure drops beneath the water, the neon floater bobbing above the surface.

"So how do I know when I got somethin'?"

"You'll feel a tug on the line. When you do, give the rod a quick jerk up to set the hook."

Jesse nods, though he's still confused as all hell, but he thinks this is one of those "learn as you go" situations.

Billy Ray and Buck cast their own lines into the water on opposite sides of Jesse. "Took Saul two hours to get a bite," Billy Ray says. "Think you can do better?"

Jesse makes a distressed face at the lake, willing it to offer up some fish, because if he has to sit here for two hours he's going to go mad. "God, I hope so."

"You're not the outdoors-y type, are ya, Aaron?" Billy Ray asks, an amused lilt to his voice.

It takes Jesse a moment to realize Billy Ray's talking to _him_. This new identity thing takes some getting used to. "Not really, no."

"So what'd'ya like to do?"

He shrugs, tugs on the line. Nothing. "I used to draw a lot, back in high school." God, he can barely remember the person he used to be before Mr. White seeped into his bones like a poison.

"An artist, huh? Why'd you stop?"

"I got busy."

"Livin' or dyin'?"

Jesse smiles, but there's no joy. "A little of both." He hears the sound of a beer bottle twisting open.

Buck asks, "I don't mean to offend, but what happened to your face?"

Jesse shuts his eyes in pain; he remembers it all, though he wishes he didn't. As soon as he gets some money, he's getting this shit fixed. Plastic surgery exists in Nebraska, right? "I got in a fight," he says, then adds, "You should see the other guy." He's got no qualms about killing Todd—he'd do it again, a thousand times over—but, Christ, he _killed someone_. Another ghost to haunt his sleep until the day he dies.

Buck asks something that throws Jesse off-guard: "He deserve it?"

Jesse will never forget the way the world dropped out from under him when Todd shot Drew Sharp and Andrea. "Yeah. He did."

Billy Ray looks curious, but they both know to back off the subject. "How come you left Alaska?" he asks instead. "Too cold for ya?"

"Nah, it was just—it was too lonely. I knew some people in town, but the whole place felt really isolated. Back home, you could live in a small town but you still felt like you were part of somethin' bigger, y'know?" He stares at the water and mindlessly reels in the line a couple inches. "But there it was just, like, this is it. After about a month or so I started gettin' real depressed for, like, no reason. Found out that the further you get from the equator, the lack of sunlight or whatever makes you depressed." The Phoenix lie makes this more believable; of course Jesse wouldn't like the glum enviroment of Alaska after living in the desert.

They're watching him, listening like Jesse's dull life story is important somehow. "So what made you come here?"

Jesse shrugs. "Saul was one of the few people who gave a shit." Toward the end of, well, everything, Saul had become increasingly helpful to Jesse, even giving him a gun to protect him from Mr. White. Sure, he also helped Mr. White poison Brock, but if Walter White could manipulate Jesse to his will, it's not too much of a stretch to think he could use Saul too.

"First-name basis, huh?"

"Yeah, well, he ain't my teacher anymore." Then why does Jesse still call Walter Mr. White?

Jesse's about to say something more when he feels a pull on the line. "Yo, I think I got somethin'."

"Already?" Buck moves closer so he can watch Jesse's technique. "Alright, reel in the slack and set the hook. Tip the rod up, almost straight."

Jesse follows the instructions the best he can, and Buck's not yelling at him or calling him an imbecile, so Jesse thinks he's doing okay.

"Keep the line tight. Don't reel 'im in until he's movin' toward you."

Jesse tries to gauge the size of the fish by the way it's pulling the line. It doesn't feel huge, but it's not exactly minnow-sized either. He lets the fish run with the line and occasionally tilts the rod to tire it out. When the fish stops, he pumps the rod a bit to bring it in. It takes about a minute or two to land the fish, but his patience pays off. Billy Ray nets the catfish out of the water, and they're all surprised by the size of the thing.

"Damn! Not bad for a first-timer!" Buck exclaims. "That's, what, an eight-pounder?"

"Just about, yeah."

Jesse smiles, proud of himself. "So, what, do we let it go now or—" He gives a yelp of horror when Billy Ray raps the fish on the head with a wooden club. "Why would you do that? I thought we were gonna throw it back!"

"Most people like to eat their first fish."

Jesse opens his mouth, closes it. He's not sure how to process what just happened. "I don't...I don't really like fish," he says with a shrug. "Is this another rite of passage thing?"

Billy Ray chuckles. "Don't worry, Saul freaked out too."

"I did not freak out," Jesse mumbles, because he _so_ didn't. "I just don't like killing..."

"It's more humane than lettin' the poor critter suffocate outta the water," Buck says. "Plus, it tastes better." Hard to argue with that logic.

Jesse stares at the dead catfish and feels something akin to pity. But maybe this fish deserved it; maybe he was a dick, some sort of fish gangster who terrorized smaller aquatic life. "You guys gonna clobber everything I catch?"

"Depends on how good you are," Billy Ray says, laying the fish on ice. "You catch more than the cooler can hold and we gotta start throwin' some back."

Jesse doesn't think he'll have to worry about that.

* * *

When Jesse gets back to Saul's house around noon, the driveway's empty, so Jesse assumes Saul's gone to work already. He takes a quick shower and throws a load of laundry into the washer—as long as he's staying here, he might as well make himself useful. The chores will serve as a distraction, so he fixes himself a small lunch while he tidies up the house.

The place is rather nice, Jesse thinks, for a bachelor pad, done up like a modern, rustic farmhouse. Something about it is familiar somehow, but he can't figure out why. The walls are a taupe, beige color offset with oak flooring. Windows in the kitchen and living room allow the sunlight to light everything up with its orange glow. The kitchen cabinets are maple wood with granite countertops. Off-white couches and armchairs sit on a conservative-patterned area rug.

It hits Jesse when he's taking the clothes out of the washer. The interior reminds him of the Schraders' house. The memory knocks the breath out of him, and it takes the sound of the front door opening to startle him back to reality.

Jesse panics, wondering who the fuck would be breaking into Saul's house. He's in the middle of grabbing a broom for a weapon when he realizes if it was an intruder, he wouldn't have heard them. Most burglars tend to be sneaky and try not to announce their arrival.

Jesse risks a glance out into the living room. He breathes out a sigh of relief when he sees Saul tossing his keys on the kitchen counter. Jesse grumbles, "Jesus, scare the shit outta me," and starts the dryer.

"I thought you were at work," Jesse says once he's in the kitchen again.

"No way. I just had a couple errands to run." He leans on the countertop, and Jesse stares at Saul's forearms for a second too long. "So, how was your trip? Catch anything?"

Jesse wets his lips. "Actually, yeah. They wanna invite us over for a cook-out tonight."

"That many, huh? When'd you get your first bite?"

"Like, ten minutes in." He smiles when Saul stares at him in disbelief. "I guess I'm just a natural or somethin'."

"Or somethin' is right. Y'know, they've got a lot of fishing competitions around here. You might wanna think about entering one."

Jesse shakes his head. "I'm not big on the outdoors."

Saul surveys the living room. "Yeah, you're more of the housewife type, huh?"

"What?"

"Did you move my stuff? The place looks suspiciously cleaner."

"Yeah, I might've...cleaned." Jesse rubs the back of his neck, glancing away from the heat of Saul's gaze. "Just a bit. I'm sorry."

"Don't be. I could use a maid." Jesse glares at him, and Saul chuckles, patting his shoulder. "That was a joke, kid. Lighten up." Jesse's line of sight flicks to the way Saul's touching him. Saul lifts his hand away, perhaps fearing he's crossed some sort of boundary. "So, what's for dinner?"

"I hope you like catfish."

* * *

Saul and Jesse head next door as the sun begins to sink in the sky. Billy Ray's already got the table set with buttered corn, baked beans, and dinner rolls. Buck's outside in the backyard frying the fish. Bark Lee gives a friendly yap when they walk into the kitchen; Jesse scratches the pup behind the ears.

"Aaron, you're in for a treat," Billy Ray says. "Buck fries up the best catfish in the county."

"It's true," Saul adds. "He won the ribbon."

Jesse breathes out a laugh. "Is there nothin' to do in this town 'cept for fishin' and winning food ribbons?" At least Albuquerque had a couple of cool museums.

"Oh, there's plenty. Saul, why don't we show 'im around sometime?" Billy Ray nudges Saul with his elbow.

"C'mon, he just got here. Give the kid a break," Saul says, waving a hand dismissively as he pulls up a chair.

"If we don't do it, Duane will."

"Am I ever gonna meet this Duane, or you just gonna talk about him like he's some local urban legend?" Jesse asks.

Billy Ray laughs. "Aw, he'd love that. Nah, we'll take you to his shop tomorrow. He'll probably give ya some sort of test first, but it ain't hard."

Jesse shoots Saul a worried look. "Test?"

"It's more of an exercise, I guess, 'cause there's no right answer. He just wants to see if you're teachable."

Jesse feels a roil of worry in his gut before common sense kicks in. If Billy Ray and Buck thought Jesse wouldn't pass the test, they wouldn't have bothered bringing up the job. So, clearly, Jesse's not destined for awful, embarrassing failure.

"Somebody gimme a hand out here?" Buck calls from outside.

Billy Ray moves to help, but Jesse shakes his head, rising from his chair. "I got it."

This one act of compassion, though Jesse doesn't know it at the time, changes his life irrevocably.

He steps out into the backyard where Buck's tending to a small fryer, wearing a ridiculous apron and wielding a set of tongs. A few steps away, there's a picnic table covered in stray newspaper pages. "Aaron! Just the man I wanted to see!"

"Oh yeah?"

The catfish filets sizzle in the fryer, filling the air with the smoky smell of seasoned fish. They've got some sort of crunchy-looking breading around them. "Can you put these on those newpapers over there while I bread up the rest?" Buck hands Jesse the tongs.

"Sure." Jesse snags a couple filets and sets them on the newspaper. The paper absorbs the grease like a sponge. It's in the middle of this simple task that Jesse spots a headline that makes him pause, and he can't hold back the gasp:

"**BLUE SKY" METH STILL ON STREETS**

Blood hums in Jesse's ears. His pulse skyrockets. With a shaky hand, he nudges a filet aside with the tongs to read the name of the paper: Omaha World-Herald.

It's not a front-page story. Rather, it's tucked away in one of the inner pages that boasts zero pictures, save for black-and-white advertisements for real estate and overpriced jewelry. This is local, Jesse realizes with a start.

Heisenberg is dead. So how did their meth end up in Omaha, Nebraska?

Jesse turns away from the papers to grab a couple more pieces of fish. Who cares, right? As far as Jesse's concerned, that part of his life is over. This doesn't concern him.

Or does it? Could the meth he cooked while enslaved still be making its rounds? Could that ever be traced back to him? Jesse doesn't see how. The cops probably don't even suspect Heisenberg of having a partner. They got their man. Case closed.

Jesse's new life is just beginning. He's making friends, and he's in line to get a job tomorrow. What's the point of tugging at the tethers of his old life?

Best to stay away from this.

That doesn't stop Jesse from reading more as he drops the next batch of fish onto the paper:

_A source inside the Omaha PD claims that the department is investigating the recent influx of a notoriously potent and unusually pure brand of methamphetamine. Known on the streets as "Blue Sky" for its distinctive light blue coloration of crystals, the drug first appeared in Albuquerque, New Mexico before gaining traction across the country, as well as the Czech Republic. After the death of its manufacturer—Walter White, a.k.a. "Heisenberg"—Omaha PD has encountered an upsurge of Blue Sky on the market. While the Omaha PD would not comment directly, they insist they are "actively seeking out many leads."_

Jesse shudders though he's not cold. His brain swirls dizzily from all the new connections and theories bubbling inside. Why is Blue Sky on the streets of Omaha? Could this be the thread that connects his new life to his old?

A hand on his shoulder makes him jump high enough to dunk a basketball. "You okay?" Buck asks with concern.

Jesse nods. His mouth's gone dry. "Y—yeah, I'm fine." He turns away, feeling Buck's eyes on him.

"You sure? You look kinda pale."

Jesse fights to keep the shake out of his voice. "I'm just hungry, I guess." He picks up three more filets and sets them on the paper, right on top of the article that turned his world upside down.

"Well, go inside and fix yourself a plate. I got this."

Jesse doesn't have much of an appetite anymore.

* * *

"You alright, kid?" Saul asks that night after dinner. "You've been pretty quiet, and I don't remember you being so pale. You tryin' for that broody vampire look?"

Jesse scrubs a hand over his face. "I'm fine, I just...feel kinda sick, I guess. This heartburn's killin' me."

A look of concern flashes over Saul's face. "You need an antacid? Here, I got tons of 'em." He digs around in one of the kitchen cabinets and tosses Jesse a roll of Tums.

Jesse fumbles with the catch. "Thanks..."

"Hey, good job on dinner tonight, by the way."

Jesse's brow furrows. "I didn't cook it."

"But you caught it, and that's pretty impressive." Saul gives him a quick little smile, and Jesse feels an unfamiliar twist in his heart. "Get some sleep," Saul says, brushing past Jesse as he heads for the staircase. "You got a big day tommorrow."

"Yeah," Jesse murmurs, and he doesn't know why his skin feels like it's crawling with an electric current.

When he finally gets into bed, he lies awake, waiting for the nightmares to drag him under. Jesse has no delusions of being able to sleep well after the bombshell dropped on him today. He tries to connect the dots in his head to see if he should be worried or not. Jesse had been the only one manufacturing Blue Sky for those six long months. But Mr. White dispatched of Jesse's captors. That means the most recent batch of meth was seized by police and never distributed. So wouldn't the previous batch already be sold? How could it be circulating all over the country, especially here of all places?

Horror rips through him at the realization: someone is cooking Blue Sky right here in Omaha.


	3. Good Times Bad Times

While Saul's at work the next day, Billy Ray and Buck drive Jesse into town to meet Duane. Duane's auto shop looks like the salvage yard from _Sanford and Son_, with junk and run-down cars strewn in every direction around the entrance. Rock music sounds from the inside; it's like he never even got out of the truck.

A blonde girl who can't be any older than Jesse meets them at the front. She's wearing a dark jumpsuit with a couple oil stains on it; Jesse unwillingly flashes back to his days with Vamonos. Her long hair's tied up into a ponytail. "You here to see Duane?"

"He is," Buck says, clapping Jesse on the shoulder. "Y'all got room for another mechanic?"

The girl smiles. "Always. C'mon in." They follow her to the car bay. She sidles up alongside Jesse and offers her hand. "Maggie. Nice to meet you." She's got a pretty strong handshake, Jesse notices.

"Aaron."

"You know a lot about cars?"

"Oh yeah. Tons," he lies.

They approach a vintage Oldsmobile with a pair of jean-clad legs sticking out from underneath it. Maggie raps on the hood. "You got company."

The owner of the legs slides out from beneath the car, wiping his grease-stained hands on a rag that's seen better days. This must be Duane, Jesse figures. He's pretty buff for a mechanic, with short dirty blonde—or brown—hair and green eyes. He's sporting a fair amount of stubble on his chiseled jawline. He's rugged, yet he looks like he could be a cover model. Jesse's never been jealous of another dude's looks before, but he's also never had disfiguring scars on his face. So, yeah, he's a little envious.

Duane stands up and shakes Jesse's hand. "Duane. You're the new guy?"

"Y—yeah. I'm Aaron."

"Well, Aaron, let's get started." Duane slaps him on the back—apparently people in Omaha are really touchy-feely—and steers him in the direction of a rust-bucket of a car in the mechanic bay. "You wanna get 'er running?" He digs into his pocket and hands Jesse the key.

Jesse slides into the driver's seat and sticks the key into the ignition. Nothing. Duane folds his arms over his chest, watching intently. "Battery's dead," Jesse says.

"Alright. So, what next?"

"Jump it."

"No cables."

"How do you not have jumper cables?"

Duane rolls his eyes. "What if you're in the middle of nowhere? How you gonna get a jump?"

Jesse sighs, tries to ignore the pang of familiarity scratching at the back of his mind. Because he's _been_ in the middle of nowhere with a dead battery. "Make a new battery."

"How?" Duane asks, sounding every bit like he doesn't think Jesse's got an answer.

But Jesse absolutely has an answer. This is just an exercise to see if Jesse's teachable. So he reaches back into the painful recesses of his memory and pulls out Mr. White's explanation: "A battery's just a cathode and an anode, right? So take mercuric oxide and graphite for the cathode, and zinc for the anode. The mercuric oxide turns into mercury, and the zinc turns into zinc oxide and generates electrons. The two reactions balance each other out. It's, y'know, science...and stuff."

Duane looks positively fucking _stunned_. A smirk twitches at the corner of Jesse's mouth, because he loves showing up people who underestimate him. Duane blinks a couple times, lets his arms fall to his sides. "Okay, wow, um, how 'bout we go in the back and get you set up?"

_That's right, bitch. _

* * *

Jesse finds that, under Duane's guidance, he's actually pretty good with cars. He never saw himself as a mechanic before, but it's not like he aspired to be a meth cook either, so he's open for surprises. He spends the day learning on the junked cars scattered across the lot, gaining familiarity with the different tools to use and the mechanisms underneath the hood.

Duane's a big fan of watching Jesse work, but Jesse surmises it's less of a desire to keep a careful eye on him and more of a curiousity. Omaha's not exactly a small town, but everyone Jesse's met here seems to know each other, so of course they're interested in this new, mysterious stranger pushing his way into their inner circle.

Or maybe he can't stop ogling Jesse's scars. It's fifty-fifty.

"How'd you meet Buck and Billy Ray?" Duane asks while Jesse's wiping oil off of his hands.

"Neighbors. I moved in with a, uh, friend of mine. His place is right next door to theirs."

"Cool. You from outta state?"

"Alaska."

He huffs a laugh. "What's that like?"

"Cold."

"No shit?"

"And lonely," Jesse says.

Duane's wearing a thoughtful look on his face. "Is that why you came here?"

Saying he moved to Omaha to escape a manhunt probably isn't the answer Duane's looking for. So Jesse just says, "Yeah."

By the end of the day Duane seems to have warmed up to him a bit, because he invites Jesse to a nearby bar for a drink after work.

The bar smells like nachos and beer. Neon signs boasting names like Coors and Budweiser hang from the walls. There's a wide-screen television mounted in the corner broadcasting the highlights of a baseball game. Lynyrd Skynyrd blares from the jukebox by the pool table.

Duane takes a seat at the bar and orders a glass of whiskey. Jesse sticks to beer. "Is Maggie your sister?" Jesse asks, because that seems like a good way to get Duane talking instead of firing questions at him.

Duane chuckles, and there's sort of a bitter edge to it. "Nah. A royal pain in my ass, but she ain't blood."

"Your girlfriend?"

"Just a friend." Duane looks over at Jesse with a smirk. "Word of advice? Don't even try. That girl will kick your ass."

Jesse's eyes go wide. "I wasn't—no, I was just—no."

Duane laughs, takes a sip of his drink. "I'm just fuckin' with you."

Jesse opts for silence and brings his beer bottle to his lips.

Duane goes quiet for a moment, content to drink and listen to the music flowing from the jukebox. Jesse averts his attention to the TV until Duane asks, "How do you know all that science shit? You some kinda genius?"

Jesse chuckles a mirthless sound and shakes his head. "I had a friend who was." It's the first time he's talked about Mr. White in ages. He feels the hole in his chest begin to tear at the edges. "He taught me a lot."

Duane seems to hear the subtext there. "You miss him?"

"Every day," Jesse says around the lump in his throat.

Duane toys with the braided leather cord draped around his neck. "Yeah, I know what you mean."

"You lose somebody too?"

Duane doesn't say anything for a moment, then: "My brother Shawn. He was a bit of a screw-up, I guess, so Dad always told me to watch out for him. And I did. He straightened up, got into a good college. Everything should'a been fine..." He takes a deep, hard gulp from the glass, draining the last sip. Jesse waits for him to say more; this feels like one of those late-night confessions where you spill your soul or else it might poison you from the inside out.

Duane stares at the drink in his hands. "It was Spring Break," he says, a small quiver in his voice. "Shawn was at a party with some friends. I don't know all the details, but apparently he got mixed up in some sort of drug deal. He'd been slingin' glass on the side to pay for school so he wouldn't have to ask me or Dad for money."

Jesse feels a pang in his chest.

"I was s'posed to protect him." Duane laughs a rough, humorless sound, and there's a bit of a slur to his speech now. "I let Dad down, and my little brother."

Jesse wonders what to say that won't sound patronizing. He dodges that conversational brick entirely by asking, "Did they ever find the guy?"

Duane shakes his head. "They better hope I don't find the son of a bitch first." His fingers tighten around the empty glass. He finds comfort in silence for a while, and Jesse's fine with that, because he's awful when it comes to offering words of support that aren't useless platitudes. Mike was good at that kind of thing; he could tell you something cliché and trite and make it sound profound as hell.

God, Jesse misses that bald, droopy-eyed motherfucker.

"What happened to your face?" Duane asks when he's on his second drink. "You get on Wolverine's bad side?"

"Just a fight," Jesse says. He really needs to invest in a t-shirt that says "Please stop asking about the scars."

"Guess you won, huh?"

"Guess I did." Jesse ignores the wave of nausea in his gut at the memory. "You want some nachos?" Duane could probably use something to eat, especially if he's going to drive home.

"Make it hot wings and you got a deal."

Jesse doesn't let Duane leave until he's sobered up, which takes about an hour or two. It's nearing eleven when they finally leave the bar. "You need a ride home?" Duane offers, unlocking the driver's door.

"Nah, I can walk."

"You sure?"

"Totally."

"Alright, catch ya later."

Jesse lingers on the sidewalk, watches Duane drive off into the night before he starts walking home. He traces his steps back to the auto shop, then navigates his way home from there. The streets aren't bustling with as much activity as Albuquerque's, but that's to be expected. It's still moderately active, which Jesse prefers; he'd rather not be alone, even if he's just surrounded by strangers paying him zero attention.

He passes by a gas station and sees an ad in the window announcing a two-for-one sale on fountain drinks. He digs his hands into his pockets, comes up empty. Damn. He could really go for a Slurpee right about now, but he'll just have to settle for fruit punch over ice when he gets home.

Jesse takes a little longer than he ought to finding Saul's neighborhood, because everything looks different in the dark, and this is only his second time traversing these streets. But eventually he makes it home.

A calm breeze rustles through the trees and cools down the sweat leaking from his brow. All the lights in the house seem to be off, save for the glow coming from the living room windows. Jesse takes the stairs up the front porch and hopes it's not too late to knock on the door. Saul really needs to give him a key.

The door swings open, and Saul greets him with, "Jesus, kid, you wanna let me know the next time you decide not to come home?"

Jesse shrinks a little under the scolding. "I'm sorry."

Saul lets him inside but doesn't stop fretting. "Do you have any idea all the awful things I thought were happening to you?" He studies Jesse's face. "No, obviously you don't."

Jesse blinks a couple times, stunned by the weight of Saul's concern. "I don't know your number," he realizes. "How was I s'posed to call you?"

Saul opens his mouth, closes it, because, yeah, that's a big roadblock. "That's—okay, well, next time just let me know, alright?"

Jesse nods and moves for the refrigerator. His body craves that glass of fruit punch like his lungs crave oxygen. It hits him as he's pouring the juice over ice: "Did you seriously wait up for me like a concerned parent?" he asks, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Saul folds his arms over his chest and scowls at him, like Jesse's the cause for all the world's misery. "That's a little hyperbolous."

"You totally did! I stayed out past curfew, and you waited up for me." Jesse grins. "You gonna ground me now, Dad?"

Saul's mouth twists into a little frown. "Don't call me that."

Jesse shrugs, gulps down the punch. "I call it like I see it, yo."

"Fine, next time maybe I won't be concerned at all for your well-being. 'Where's Jesse?' 'Who cares?'"

Jesse hides a smile behind the rim of the glass. "You are such a fuckin' dork." He's not going to pretend he doesn't find Saul's concern endearing, because when was the last time anyone ever gave a shit about him? It's not like Saul's gaining anything by keeping Jesse around, so his fretting over Jesse isn't fueled by selfish reasoning. Maybe Saul just enjoys Jesse's company, and that's enough for him to panic when Jesse's gone too long.

Jesse's not equipped to handle this kind of emotional investment. The only people who cared about him being late were drug dealers. This is entirely new territory for him, so, of course, his gut instinct is to mock it. Otherwise he'd have to be honest, and there's always risk involved in honesty; Jesse's risked enough already.

Saul pouts at him. "You're the dork," he mumbles, and Jesse doesn't know why his stomach does twists and knots at that.

Jesse just laughs to himself and finishes his drink before heading into the shower.

Dread creeps into his bones as Jesse climbs into bed, because there have to be repercussions for opening the floodgates and talking about Mr. White tonight. The subject is utterly forbidden, and Jesse does his best to avoid thinking about it. But he'd been stupid and vulnerable, and he knows it's going to cost him.

Jesse curls up, squeezes his eyes shut, and waits.

* * *

A week passes by, and Jesse feels like his life's finally gaining some normalcy. He goes to work at a real, non-drug-related job, he has friends who don't manufacture or sell drugs, and he lives in a nice house with a roommate he finds himself staring at a little too long. On those agonizing, lonely nights at the compound, he'd gaze up at the stars and yearn for freedom. It seems as if he got his freedom and then some.

Saul's at work during Jesse's first day off, so Jesse spends the day doing housework to pass the time. He sweeps and mops the kitchen floor, vacuums the carpet, dusts, and does a couple loads of laundry. He figures he ought to earn his keep here if he's not paying rent. Shit, does Saul expect him to pay rent? Jesse makes a mental note to ask about that later.

He's putting the finishing touches on dinner when Saul walks through the door that evening. Saul stops in the middle of the living room, sniffs the air. "I smell lavender. Did you Febreze the place?"

"Yeah, just a little. 'Cause I accidentally caught a rubber band in the vacuum so I had to get that burnt smell outta the air."

Saul's eyebrows raise in a particularly suspicious way. "You vacuumed?"

"Yeah?" Jesse ignores the disbelief in Saul's voice and says, "You hungry? I made Hamburger Helper. 'Cept we didn't have any hamburger so it's just Helper."

The look of bewilderment doesn't leave Saul's face; it actually intensifies. He blinks once, twice, opens his mouth, closes it. "Did you and June Cleaver get into those teleportation pods from _The Fly_? I feel like I'm in an alternate universe where you're a 1950's housewife who does domestic things like cooking and cleaning. This is damaging to my world view, Jesse. I need a moment," Saul says before going upstairs.

Why is it so weird that Jesse has an edge of domesticity? It's like Saul forgets that Jesse's an actual person capable of performing tasks that aren't cooking meth. But Saul hasn't had many opportunities to see Jesse's life outside of the drug business, so give it another week or two and the shock will wear off.

Saul comes downstairs about twenty minutes later in his pajamas, which consist of a loose, worn t-shirt and a pair of lounge pants. Saul's t-shirt says "Starfleet Academy." Jesse snickers. "Never knew you were a Trekkie."

"Live long and prosper, baby," Saul says with a half-smile. "You more of a Kirk guy or a Spock guy?"

"Neither. Only reason I know anything about Star Trek is 'cause Badger never shut the fuck up about it. He used to put Starfleet on his resumé under 'education.'" Saul huffs laughter. "Believe it or not, that's progress. He used to put down Hogwarts." Jesse remembers Badger's Harry Potter phase with more fondness now.

"You've always been surrounded by nerds, haven't you?"

Jesse realizes that, yeah, he has. Jake, Badger, Skinny Pete, Combo, Mr. White... All huge fucking nerds in one way or another. And now Saul's here to fill the void. It's kind of nice when he thinks about it. "Maybe 'cause I'm a nerd too."

Saul strolls into the kitchen and stares at the food Jesse's prepared. "Are you also a good cook, or do I have to order take-out?"

"My cooking is fine." God, he swears he's had this conversation before, but under very different circumstances.

Saul doesn't seem to hear the subtext. "I'll be the judge of that."

* * *

"Pretty good Helper," Saul says with his mouth half full.

"I told you," Jesse shoots back, because he can't help but gloat.

"Sorry, I'm a skeptic. You never struck me as someone whose kitchen expertise extended beyond microwaving pizza rolls."

Jesse chooses not to be insulted by that, because Saul's never had the chance to learn anything about Jesse beyond the surface. So he gets a pass for his blatant ignorance. Jesse leans back in his chair and decides to offer something of worth. "Yeah, well, when my aunt got sick, I would, uh, I would cook for her 'cause sometimes she, y'know, _couldn't_. But that wouldn't stop her from givin' me directions from the couch. 'Fry the grilled cheese in mayo!' 'I don't care what the box says; do it my way!'" He chuckles at the memory. "She used to cook all our food for holidays and shit. She had a couple awesome recipes I could make sometime"—Jesse fears he's overstepping somehow, so he adds—"if—if you want, I mean. I know you're, like, the ribbon-winner for muffins, so I guess maybe you wanna cook, huh?"

Saul's watching him with a quirk of a smile at the corner of his mouth. "Hey, I'm all in favor of less work for me. If you wanna take over kitchen duties, don't let me stop you."

"Alright, sweet." Jesse takes a bite, asks, "So how'd you get into baking? You got some sort of family recipe for muffins?"

"No, it's far, far lamer than you'd ever imagine." Saul cracks a smile. "You promise not to laugh?"

"I promise I'll _try_ not to."

That must be good enough for Saul, because he begins, "My last ex loved blueberry muffins, but she couldn't cook worth a damn. That woman could burn ice cream. So my glorious, award-winning recipe was borne from my refusal to choke down her godawful, dry, tasteless muffins. If you want something done right..." He lets the rest trail off with a shrug.

Jesse promised he'd try not to laugh, and to his credit he tries fairly hard, but the fact that Saul _bakes_ is too much for him to handle. A snicker bubbles out from his lips, and he covers his mouth to smother the sound. "I'm sorry, that's just—that's so domestic."

"Plus, you watch enough Food Network and you pick up a few things," Saul says, choosing to ignore Jesse's mirth at his hobbies.

Jesse grins at him, but Saul glances away after a moment, his mouth drawn into a solemn line, and Jesse doesn't know what to make of that. It's not like he's laughing _at_ Saul... Okay, he kind of is, but not in a cruel, taunting way. He thinks it's adorable that Saul has such a domestic side; not what you'd expect from the sleazy, flamboyantly-fashioned lawyer.

Actually, now that Jesse thinks about it, Saul himself is kind of adorable. In a totally manly way, of course. His dumb jokes, his goofy t-shirts, his protectiveness, the way he invited Jesse into his home... It's hard not to be a little charmed, Jesse thinks.

Of course, he'll never admit it to anyone, least of all Saul.

That'll be Jesse's little secret.

* * *

Jesse walks into the auto shop Thursday afternoon to the sound of Duane swearing viciously at an old, worn-down car in the lot. He finds Maggie, who's standing to the side by the vending machine taking in the spectacle with an amused smirk. "What happened?" Jesse asks.

"The same thing that always happens when he tries to fix Ol' Blue." Jesse tries not to wince at the name. "Something else breaks and he starts swearing." Maggie looks over at Jesse. "It's kind of hilarious."

"Somebody bring it in?"

She shakes her head. "He bought it from a scrap yard, thought he could get it running and turn it around for a nice profit." Duane kicks one of the front tires. "Joke's on him."

"What kind of car is it?"

"'85 Nissan 300ZX," Maggie says. "Hatchback. V-6 engine. Leather interior. Manual 5-speed." He feels like he ought to be immediately attracted to a girl who speaks _Car & Driver_, but, really, he'd prefer if she could name all of the X-Men.

"Fuck it!" Duane yells at the car. "I'm done! You're goin' back to the scrap heap!" He digs his cell phone out of his pocket.

Jesse runs across the lot. "Wait, hold up!" Duane pauses, and Jesse says, "Don't junk it yet. What if I could fix it?"

Duane has no right looking so judgemental. "Hell, if you can fix it, it's yours."

That stuns Jesse in place. He expected a lot more arguing and questioning of his intellect. He's still new here, and he isn't sure if he's allowed to do things like this. "For real?"

"Why not?" Duane says with a shrug. "I haven't been able to get that thing workin' properly for a whole month."

Jesse's glad that Duane's so easygoing, because later that afternoon when an achingly-familiar puke-green Aztek rolls into the shop Jesse dissolves into a trembling mess. His breath starts rasping down his throat. He can barely get out the words, "Hey, do you mind takin' this one for me?" to Duane before his throat closes up around them and his eyes fog over. He stumbles into the break room at the back of the shop with his heart pounding against his ribcage like it might crack through his sternum. He shuts himself in and slides down the door, curling into himself and trying to remember how to breathe properly. His lungs shudder and shake and contort as if they're being ripped out of his throat.

All Jesse knows for sure is that he's going to die. Because Mr. White is still alive and bent on revenge. Because Duane will be pissed Jesse handed over a job for no good reason. Because his body and his brain are telling him so.

Jesse doesn't know how long it's been before someone knocks sprightly on the door. "Knock knock." A female voice. It must be Maggie.

"'Sup," Jesse croaks, trying his best to sound unaffected, but his voice feels like sandpaper in his throat.

The door edges open against his weight. Maggie slips inside, shutting the door to give them privacy. She kneels at his side. "You alright?"

"I'm fine," he says, wiping the wetness off of his face with sweaty hands. His breathing evens out enough for him to feel like he has some sort of control over it.

"Was this your first panic attack?" At his look of surprise, she says, "My little sister used to get 'em when she started high school."

Jesse takes a deep breath that nourishes his lungs. "I've never—I've never felt anything like that before." His hands are still loose and jittery, lungs jumpy like there's not enough oxygen.

She nods. "It's not the end of the world. It just feels like it. You'll be okay. Just remember to breathe."

Jesse focuses on the pattern of his breaths, how much air fills his lungs, how deeply he exhales. "Is he mad at me?"

"Who? Duane? No way. He's totally cool. He understands stuff like this." She leans in like she's going to tell him an earth-shattering secret. "He won't work on a car that reminds him of his brother's."

The revelation soothes Jesse's nerves. Duane isn't going to scream at Jesse or fire him. As pieces of his rational mind come back to him, he realizes there's probably thousands of those stupid Azteks out there. That doesn't mean Mr. White is alive.

Jesse's not sure if that makes him feel better.

* * *

Saul enjoys having Jesse around the house, but the one thing that makes him regret their arrangement are the night terrors. They don't happen every night, but when they do it's a symphony of anguished noises that human vocal chords should be incapable of producing. Honest to God, Saul just wants to bury his head in the pillow until the screaming stops. Maybe it's selfish and insensitive, or maybe Saul's just a coward. But it's like living in a haunted house where the moans and screams and cries echo and reverberate through the walls. All suffering, no humanity.

But Jesse needs his help, and Saul can't turn him away, not after last time when his presence helped lull Jesse into a quiet slumber. So Saul crawls out of his soft, warm bed and ventures down the hall to the guest bedroom. He opens the door. Just being in this room while Jesse thrashes and writhes there in the bed makes anxiety crawl over Saul's skin like a thousand tiny, prickly spiders.

"Jesse." He flicks on the light switch near the door and banishes the darkness. The brightness makes him squint, eyes unadjusted to the burst of light. "Jesse, it's okay. You're safe. Nothing's gonna hurt you," Saul says, making his way to the bed. He jostles Jesse's shoulder, trying to break him free from the spell of the nightmare. "Jesse."

Jesse chokes on an agonized wail, as if he recognizes Saul's voice in the void. He staggers out a few gulps of air and turns over. When he sees Saul, his expression gives way into something lost and childlike, like he's staring into the eyes of a savior. His skin is almost as pale as the sheets. His forehead's covered in a sheen of freezing sweat, his body caught in a stranglehold of blankets. Then his countenance contorts into misery, and he covers his face with his tattooed arm and starts bawling again. His eyes are fountains of tears, ceaseless and miserable.

Saul lays a hand on Jesse's arm. If physical contact severed Jesse's ties to the dream before, it might work again. "Jesse, hey. It's just a dream. You're safe here. You're awake."

Jesse drags his hand over his face. His scars seem to dance in the moonlight. He sits up and wipes his eyes. His body's trembling, his consciousness still ensnared in the claws of the dream. Saul rubs his back in slow circles until his shaking ceases. He can't imagine the thoughts in Jesse's head, what awful dreams Jesse must have to make him shriek like his insides are being shredded.

"You want some ice cream?" Saul asks after Jesse's calmed down a bit. "That usually puts me to sleep."

Jesse gives a helpless nod. Saul gets up from the bed and notices the way Jesse shadows him while they walk downstairs, as if Saul is Jesse's own personal shield against imaginary monsters. Saul pops open the freezer door and peers inside. "Looks like you got choices." He takes out two pints of Ben & Jerry's so Jesse can see. "Phish Food or AmeriCone Dream?"

Jesse thinks for a moment. "Which one's vanilla?"

Saul sets the pint down in front of him. Jesse grabs a spoon before Saul can do it for him and sits at the table. He opens the lid and digs out a spoonful, concentrating on the task like his life depends on it. Saul thinks the tendrils of the dream are still hovering there in the recesses of Jesse's mind, ready to reach out and grab him at the slightest provocation; focusing on something mundane probably keeps them away.

For the briefest second, Saul's stricken with a thought that makes his throat swell: could that be why Jesse does so much housework?

Saul sits across from Jesse, clears his throat, and says, "So, uh, anything you wanna talk about? You don't have to, but if you think it'd help, I'll listen." He shrugs into silence, not wanting to tread over psychological landmines. Or, worst of all, push Jesse into talking about something he'd rather keep locked up inside.

Jesse's brow creases in a thoughtful way. He jabs his spoon into the ice cream again and carves out another bite. "Mr. White died protecting me," he says after he swallows. It's frank and abrupt, and Jesse's mouth twists slightly when he speaks, as if he expects to be chastised. "After selling me out and putting me through hell, he comes back to rescue me. And he takes a bullet for me." Jesse lifts his gaze and looks at Saul. "How am I supposed to live with that?"

"One good deed in the end doesn't redeem him."

"But it's something, y'know? Maybe he was really sorry for all the awful shit he did... He asked me to kill him when it was over, like he knew he deserved it."

Saul really wishes he'd taken those counseling classes in college for extra credit. But no, he had to opt for some bullshit poly-sci classes he can't even use now. He doesn't have to ask if Jesse obliged Walt's request; he already knows the answer.

Jesse shoves another spoonful into his mouth. "He was there that night—the night Jane died."

Saul feels a tightening in his chest.

"He told me he watched her die, that he could've saved her, but he didn't." Jesse sniffles, stares at nothing in particular for a moment.

"He saved your life and then he told you that?" What a dick.

Jesse shakes his head. "This was—this was before." He wipes a hand over his face, like he realizes Saul's missing huge, crater-sized gaps of the story. "I took your car to go to Mr. White's place and burn it down," he admits in a lifeless voice. "But Mr. White's brother-in-law stopped me, and we came up with a plan to catch him. We tricked him into leadin' us to where his money was—the first place we ever cooked—and Mr. White's brother-in-law cuffed him, got him in the back of the car and everything. It was almost over."

Saul doesn't realize he's holding his breath until Jesse says, "And then _they_ showed up," because he tries to gasp but there's no air.

"They started shooting and—God, there was so many of them." Jesse presses a hand to his wet face to stem the tears leaking from his eyes. "They killed Mr. White's brother-in-law and the other DEA agent that was with us. They dug up Mr. White's money and loaded it into their truck. I hid under his car when they showed up, so they couldn't find me. Not 'til Mr. White told them where I was. He said they 'still owed him,' and they were s'posed to kill me. But they decided not to 'cause they had to find out what I told the DEA." Jesse eats a little more, like the ice cream is stemming off some sort of breakdown.

Then he says, "They made me cook for them," in such a detached, matter-of-fact way that it sends chills along Saul's spine. "For a hundred and eighty-seven days."

Saul has a pretty good idea where the scars came from now.

His heart shatters in his chest. "Oh God..." he murmurs, because what else can you say? Over the course of his former career, Saul's heard the gamut of awful shit, but this takes the cake, because, _Jesus_, that's horrible. "Jesse... None of this is your fault. I want you to know that. You didn't deserve any of this."

Jesse looks at Saul with eyes that have known little kindness, like he doesn't entirely believe the words. He nods slowly, probably unsure of what to say in response, and goes back to his ice cream.

"All of the men who hurt you... They're dead, right?"

Jesse nods again.

"So you know you're safe, that they can't hurt you anymore?"

Jesse swallows thickly and risks another glance at Saul. "I know, but—I can't keep the dreams away..."

"You ever try thinkin' about something nice before you go to sleep? Like, I dunno, hang gliding, surfing, piloting the Millenium Falcon?"

Jesse cracks a smile.

"Sometimes when I fall asleep thinking about something, my dreams pick up where I left off." He shrugs like it's meaningless. "Worth a shot, maybe."

Jesse eats another scoop, and Saul notices his cheeks grow significantly redder. "When you were there, it, uh, it was easier, y'know, to sleep," he practically mumbles, but the kitchen's quiet enough that Saul can hear him.

"You want me there?" Saul lets a little bit of pride leak into his voice.

Jesse blushes, staring into the pint of ice cream and stabbing his spoon into it. "Just 'til I fall asleep. Once I'm out, you can bounce. Or, y'know, you don't have to stay at all if you don't wanna. Whatever," he says in a low voice, like he doesn't care about the answer.

But Saul knows Jesse well enough to see he's pretty good at pretending not to care about things.

Saul says, "I'll stay with you, Jesse."

Jesse goes back to his bedroom after he's had enough ice cream for the night. Saul keeps him company, lies beside him in the bed and listens for the sounds of his breathing to slow. He looks at Jesse's sleeping form, catches Jesse's wrist that's lying near his face. The steady pulse of his heart thumps under Saul's thumb as he draws soft circles over the skin there

The corners of Jesse's mouth are turned up slightly. Saul wonders what it might be like to kiss that mouth, to feel the scrape of stubble against his chin. He's never given the same sex much thought before. His luck with women is rather hit-or-miss; why pick up a new hobby when you haven't mastered the old one?

But Jesse is resilient, fascinating, and resonant in a way nothing and no one even comes close to. He's an inferno, and Saul wants to get close enough to burn. But for Saul to voice any sort of interest in Jesse is to risk demolishing the last fragments of Jesse's trust. Saul could never be that selfish, not when Jesse's so fragile. In time, maybe they could build something together, but for now Saul's stuck on the sidelines. Which, when he gets to do things like this, the sidelines aren't half bad.


	4. I Can't Quit You Baby

Jesse's first off day of the week rolls around, and Saul's not going to let him remodel the house to stem the painful memories. So he enlists the help of Buck and Billy Ray to keep Jesse occupied and entertained while Saul's at work—entirely unbeknownst to Jesse, of course, because Saul's big on surprises.

Jesse's in the middle of getting dressed for the day when he hears a knock from downstairs. He stumbles over his jeans, grabs a random shirt from the closet and pulls it over his head as he descends the stairs. Buck and Billy Ray are standing at the door.

"Yo." Jesse tries to look past them to see if their house is currently on fire, because he can't think of another reason why they'd be here. "Somethin' wrong?"

They get a kick out of that. "Naw, just thought you might wanna go into town today, have some fun," Billy Ray says.

Jesse rubs the back of his neck. "Actually, I, uh, I was gonna do that. There's a list of stuff to get at the store..." He shrugs into silence.

"Need some company?"

No one hangs out with Jesse because they want to. His brain forms the thought, "bullshit" with such immediate fierceness that saying it aloud might draw blood. "Did Saul put you guys up to this?"

"No! 'Course not!" Buck and Billy Ray are really bad liars.

"Did he seriously tell you to hang out with me?" Jesse asks, folding his arms over his chest.

Billy Ray shakes his head. "All he said was you were free today. We thought we'd take you into town if you haven't already been." He glances behind him at the barren driveway. "On account of you not havin' a car and all."

Jesse's absolutely certain Saul asked them to hang out with him today; he just can't _prove_ it. But there is a slight possibility Jesse mentioned something about going to the store this morning and Saul made arrangements for him. Besides, a little company might be nice.

Jesse sighs and heads for the stairs. "Fine, lemme get my shoes."

The inside of Buck and Billy Ray's truck smells like old tobacco, leather, and peppermint, with a hint of wet dog. Jesse sits in the back seat and draws his knees up to prevent his legs from being squished by the passenger seat. He feels like he's sitting at one of those plastic picnic tables for children. Faint music drifts out of the speakers, one of which is right behind Jesse. He watches the scenery roll by out the window: gold and scarlet-tipped trees, telephone poles, and tall, brick buildings.

While Bad Company sings of crazy circles, Buck asks Jesse, "So, you do all the chores around the house or just the shopping?"

_Goddammit, Saul_. "I like feelin' useful."

Buck doesn't call him on his non-answer. "Hard to go to the store without a car."

"I'm workin' on one at the shop. Duane said he'll give it to me if I can get it running."

"Oh yeah? What is she?"

It takes Jesse a moment to realize Billy Ray's talking about the car. "Uh, it's a Nissan 300ZX. '85, I think. It's blue, but I might paint it red and put flames on the side. It's gonna be dope."

Billy Ray laughs. "Duane's been tryin' to get Ol' Blue runnin' for weeks!" A flicker of pain licks at the edges of Jesse's consciousness. "Best of luck, kid."

"I was gonna head down there tonight after they close." The auto shop isn't too far from Saul's house, and Jesse doesn't mind the walk. He likes looking at the trees and buildings along the way; the architecture and aesthetic here is vastly different from Albuquerque's.

"Be careful," Buck warns. "Just 'cause this ain't Phoenix don't mean it's all sunshine and roses."

"What, is there a ghost or somethin' that comes out at night?" Jesse asks with a wry chuckle.

"You don't gotta worry about imaginary monsters," Buck says. "The human ones are bad enough."

Jesse feels the truth of those words in his weary soul.

He's a little disappointed when they roll into a Wal-Mart parking lot a couple minutes later. He expected some sort of hidden local treasure of a market, something to make him feel like he's on a whole new plane of existence from Albuquerque. But apparently some things remain the same.

It could be worse, Jesse supposes, so he doesn't mind too much.

As he loads up the cart, Jesse realizes why he likes these mundane activities. It's more than just a way to keep himself busy and drown the memories threatening to resurface. He hasn't been to a grocery store in six months. He hasn't had a legitimate job in ages. It's been years since Jesse Pinkman has lived an ordinary, average existence. He's been stuck in a loop of agony and crystal meth for much too long. Living a normal, apple-pie life is like a breath of oxygen to decayed, malnourished lungs.

So, yeah, maybe he does enjoy tasks like grocery shopping and cleaning the house and doing laundry. Saul can tease him about being a housewife all he wants; after living through hell, domesticity is the bomb, yo.

He doesn't have a lot of freedom to stray from the list due to his limited funds, so they're finished shopping in under an hour. Jesse's still not sure why they insist on keeping him company while he unloads the groceries though.

"Got the place fixed up real nice," Buck says, looking around the living room.

Jesse doesn't think that's as much of a compliment as it sounds. "Thanks..."

"How long you stayin' here?"

"'Til I can get my own place, I guess. Saul hasn't tried to rush me out or nothin'."

"He ain't gonna complain 'long as he gets a home-cooked meal," Billy Ray says, and Jesse can't help but feel like they're picking on him for being a homemaker. "He'll probably never ask you to leave."

"'Cause I got it smellin' spring fresh in here, yo."

"Used to be a guy had to get married for that."

Jesse's face flushes at the implication. He turns away to shove some groceries into the fridge and hide his traitorous complexion. The last thing he needs is for anyone to know about his crush on Saul.

"How're you two gettin' along anyway?" Billy Ray asks.

Jesse fumbles for an answer that doesn't sound too gushing. "Oh, uh, great. Yeah, Saul's awesome. Always has been."

"That why you came to him?"

"Well, that, and I kinda didn't have anybody else. But I'm glad I found him again. He's hella chill, y'know?"

Buck and Billy Ray exchange glances, and, oh fuck, did Jesse just out himself? That's totally something he would do. Is he really that obvious?

"The chillest. You could store a side of meat in him for a month," Buck says.

Jesse feels his cheeks heat up. There's no way to interpret that comment in a way that's not dirty. "Word."

Are they trying to hint that Saul's into dudes? Is that what's happening here? Jesse is so lost right now.

"We best leave ya alone. You probably got chores to do, don't ya?" Billy Ray says.

"Yeah, tons."

They move for the door. "Good seein' you again, Aaron. Don't be a stranger now."

"You too."

Jesse breathes out a sigh when the front door closes behind them. Fuck, they totally know about his embarrassing gay crush on his roommate.

Having friends was nice while it lasted.

* * *

Jesse doesn't come downstairs the next morning for breakfast, and Saul doesn't wake him up. There wasn't any screaming last night, but he could have sworn he heard faint sniffling when he listened outside Jesse's door. Saul has no idea why he didn't just open the door and go inside. Part of him figured if Jesse wasn't screaming he had it under control. And another part of him didn't want to seem too eager to climb into bed beside Jesse, like he's only offering comfort for what he can get out of it.

This stupid crush is making him second-guess everything.

Jesse comes trudging down the stairs around two in the afternoon, yawning and rubbing his eyes. "'Sup," he says, moving for the fridge.

"Not a lot, kiddo." Saul turns his head so he can watch Jesse stare at the contents of the fridge. "You get any sleep?"

Jesse makes a noise that says nothing and everything all at once. "You didn't save me any breakfast?"

"I figured we could do lunch and we'd be even. You up for it?"

Jesse gives him a puzzled look. "Yeah. 'S'fine."

He doesn't sound too enthusiastic, but Saul chalks that up to morning dreariness. "Just let me know when you're hungry."

"Well, I'm lookin' in the fridge. That should be a pretty big hint."

"Someone's wearing his snarky pants this morning," Saul quips. He can practically feel Jesse rolling his eyes at him. "Alright, get dressed and we'll go get delicious pizza."

Jesse shuts the fridge door and climbs the staircase. How much of a better mood would Jesse be in if Saul had just gone into that room last night? _Stupid, stupid._

Jesse comes downstairs ten minutes later wearing a black leather jacket that probably belongs in Michael Jackson's closet, grungy, dark-wash jeans, and a pretty well-fitted t-shirt. It takes all Saul has to keep his tongue in the vicinity of his mouth. "You look like you belong on the cover of _Badass Monthly_," Saul teases, but when he tries to swallow he finds his throat's gone dry. Because, yeah, he made a joke, but he still complimented the guy he likes, and his clown mask cracked under the weight of it.

Jesse just smirks and shoves his hands in his jean pockets. "And you look like someone's dad. When was the last time The Who even released an album?"

Saul's first instinct tells him to be insulted by that "someone's dad" comment—he's not _that_ old—but maybe he can work with a dad vibe. Jesse seems like he's got a thing for older guys anyway—Walt, Mike—and, wow, he can't believe he actually thought that. The evidence is pretty overwhelming though, so Saul's just going to go with it. He zips up his sweatshirt to hide the offending t-shirt. "Don't be a smartass."

"I didn't even know you _owned_ a hoodie."

"You think I should change? I mean, are you gonna be embarrassed to be seen in public with me?"

"Probably, but, whatever, you look fine." Jesse glances away, mouth twitching at the corner in a way that looks conflicted, uncomfortable. He turns and heads for the door. "Now let's go before I change my mind."

The pizza joint is nestled in a quaint little area of town with an old-world feel to it. It's not run down or dilapidated, but the buildings seem like they've been there for at least fifty years. There's a certain charm to the square, and Jesse watches through the window as people walk by and birds flutter to the ground to grab stray crumbs or insects in their beaks.

Saul's voice breaks him from his private reverie. "This place says their pizza's the best, and as someone with taste buds I'm inclined to agree." The pizza's cooling off in the middle of the table, steam rising from the pie like early-morning mist over a lake.

"What, the best pizza in Omaha?"

"They're not very specific about that, so I'm assuming they mean the actual, literal best in the US, possibly the world. Which, y'know what, I'm not gonna argue with that. When the sauce cools down to not-lava temperature, you'll find out why."

"'Cause when I think awesome pizza, I totally think Omaha. Not New York or Chicago or Sicily. Fuck them."

"I've never had pizza there, so yeah." Saul resists the urge to stick his tongue out, because he's a mature adult.

"Well, I have," Jesse says with an uncalled-for amount of smugness in his voice. He edges off a piece of the pie. Tendrils of cheese stretch out as he moves it onto his plate. "Before Jake was born, my folks and I went to New York for Thanksgiving to visit some of my dad's relatives. School was out, so we ended up staying about a week. It was pretty dope. I got to see all the cool shit they show on TV—Central Park, the Statue of Liberty, Empire State Building..." A smile curls at the corner of his mouth. "My mom was real crazy about _Law & Order_ back then, so for her it was, like, a tour of all the crime scenes. Day after Thanksgiving all the stores were hella crowded 'cause of Black Friday, so instead of going out we just ordered pizza and stayed inside. That was the best pizza I ever had. This one has a lot to live up to." Jesse pokes at the challenger slice with his knife before cutting it into smaller pieces.

He stuffs a bite into his mouth, and the look on his face is that of pure bliss. "Shit, this is awesome," he mumbles.

Saul smirks at his satisfaction. "I told you."

Jesse keeps chewing. "This is _really_ awesome." He shoves another piece into his mouth before he's fully done with the first one. "God exists, and He's right here in my mouth."

Saul tries his hardest not to laugh at that. He doesn't do very well, but he tried, and that's what matters. "I'm gonna guess you weren't intending for that to sound dirty."

"Whatever, man," Jesse says with his mouth full. "Your dirty jokes are powerless in Pizza Heaven." Almost as soon as he swallows, he takes another bite. "I can't believe you've never been to New York."

"In my defense, I've been to Chicago, but I never had any pizza there."

"Then why even go?"

"Well, my second wife's family lived there, so I thought it was appropriate." Saul doesn't talk much about his past, which makes sense when you're starting a new life, but he figures since Jesse offered something to the table, he ought to do the same. The give-and-take might help him learn more about Jesse. "It was right after we announced our engagement. Her parents invited us up, so we spent a day and a half at her folks' place. Would'a been rude to duck out for pizza when they insisted on cooking for us."

Jesse tilts his head. "How many ex-wives do you even have?"

"Enough to realize I'm the problem." Another joke that cracks the mask.

"Whatever, dude. You're awesome."

"Well, thanks, Jesse, but just a minute ago you called the pizza awesome, so I'm not sure if that's as much of a compliment as it sounds."

"Things can be awesome in different ways. Like, you're awesome 'cause you let me stay with you, which means you're nice, y'know? You make me laugh, so you've got a wicked sense of humor. You're kind of a nerd, which I dig 'cause I'm a nerd about shit too." He snags another slice from the pie. "You should take some of this before it's all gone, yo."

Saul's done nothing but hang on Jesse's every fucking word since they got here. God, he's in deep.

"And, y'know, you help me sleep. I don't know anybody who would do that for me," Jesse continues, his voice low and his cheeks pinked. "'Cept maybe Mike, but he ain't here..."

"My pleasure, kid. Don't worry about it. I aim to serve." Saul stares at his hands. "I know you came here for Brock, but, I dunno, I'm a believer in everything happening for a reason. And, well, if you had gotten what you wanted, you wouldn't be able to break down and grieve over what happened to you. You'd be a caretaker, stuffing it all into some internal suitcase for the sake of the kid."

Jesse watches him like his words are meaningful somehow.

"So maybe this whole arrangement was a blessing in disguise, I guess. Even though it may not seem like it."

Jesse's gaze seems to pierce through Saul's soul, and Saul has to look away, too ashamed over what Jesse might find there. "I don't know where I'd be without you, dude. I didn't come here with a plan B. If I couldn't take care of Brock, I just figured I'd...check out." Jesse shrugs like it's nothing, like he's talking about "checking out" of a hotel instead of this mortal coil.

Saul's stomach plunges. Jesse _can't_ be serious, but his blue eyes are brooding with no traces of humor. Christ.

"But you let me crash at your place, so I thought I'd give you a chance." The corner of his mouth turns up into a smile. "I'm glad I did."

Saul wets his mouth, still reeling from Jesse's earlier revelation. "You don't—you don't still think about it, do you?"

"Sometimes, yeah," Jesse admits in a low voice. "I mean, the things we've lived through...you don't come back from that, not really. You'll never be like anybody else 'cause you're _not_, y'know?"

Saul knows, and he wonders what Jesse must have endured to warrant such a bleak outlook. But he's thankful for his ignorance. That knowledge would change him irrevocably, and not for the better.

Jesse takes another bite. "Seriously, dude. I'm gonna eat this whole thing if you don't take some."

"You really think you could do that?" Jesse's only managed to finish off two slices, and each slice is ridiculously thick. There's no way he could eat the entire pie.

"Totally. I'm starved," Jesse says with his mouth full. He swigs down a gulp of root beer and grabs another slice.

Saul's not going to test that kind of conviction.

It finally hits Saul as he's walking Jesse to the door of their shared little home: this was totally a date, because from the outside that's exactly what it looks like. Saul can only hope Jesse's having the same realization. He seems to be staring at Saul like he's waiting for something. Oh God. This is it. This is the moment he's been waiting for. This is—

"This is the part where you open the door," Jesse reminds him.

Fuck. Saul digs through his pockets for the keys. He hasn't had a first date in ages; he's so rusty it's not even funny. "Oh, right, of course. There's an _inside_. Thank you for reminding me."

Jesse laughs, and the sound is a thing of wonder. Being on the receiving end of that smile is intoxicating; Saul wants that smile all to himself, wants to be the one who makes it appear.

If Saul were a braver man, he would cover Jesse's mouth with his own and kiss the breath from his lungs. He would reach out and get his fingers around Jesse's jacket and pull him closer until he can taste the individual sugars and proteins and irons that make up his beautiful body. He would sink to his knees and suck Jesse's cock right here on their front porch.

But Saul is not that braver man, so he just finishes unlocking the door and lets Jesse inside. Moment over. Opportunity wasted.

* * *

Jesse spends his breaks at work tinkering around with the Nissan, and when the shop slows to a crawl on Tuesday evening he's out in the yard working underneath the car. The sun's started to set, dipping below the horizon and coloring the sky in soft orange and pink hues. Insects hum and chitter in the distant trees. Jesse switches on the flashlight and sets it on the ground beside him, pointing the beam of light at the undercarriage of the car. He hears the distant thunk of a can dropping out of the vending machine. Then another. Then footsteps across the dirt.

He still jumps when someone taps his shoe with their foot. "Thirsty?"

When he rolls out from beneath the car, he sees Maggie standing against the gauzy clouds, holding two soda cans. "The machine gave me an extra. Thought you might need it."

Jesse smiles and accepts, because it's not often someone does something nice for him. "Thanks." His parched throat appreciates the hydration.

Maggie leans against the side of the car. "So were you some kind of science geek back in Alaska?"

She must be referring to the battery thing that got him hired. "Not really. I had a friend who was, though. Back in high school we used to do all sorts of projects." His voice twists off at the end into something sad, and Maggie must hear it because she doesn't poke at the topic.

She snaps open her soda can and takes a sip. "Then what were you into?"

"Drawing, video games, music..." His list of hobbies is shamefully short without the illegal activities he once enjoyed. "Dirt-biking, go-karts..."

"You like movies?"

"Yeah, who doesn't?"

"Well, maybe we could see one sometime," she says, lifting an eyebrow in a meaningful way.

"Sure, that'd be dope."

"Just let me know when you're available." She walks away before Jesse can really register what happened. It hits him moments later. Holy shit, she just asked him out.

Jesse's no stranger to his appearance; oftentimes he finds himself staring into the mirror, wishing for a way to hide the damage on his face. He hasn't loathed his own reflection since the days of awkward adolescence. How he wishes acne or braces were his biggest problems now.

But Maggie doesn't seem to mind how he looks. She must find him attractive enough; why else would she ask him out? This is the strangest thing that's happened to him since he moved to Nebraska; he's not sure how to proceed.

Because it's not like there's anything wrong with Maggie. She's cute, smart, and funny—in a way that makes his heart ache—but he's just not attracted to her. Which isn't too big of a roadblock, because given enough time that could change. It wouldn't be the first time he grew to be attracted to someone through their personality instead of their looks.

The more pressing dilemma is his questionable track record with relationships. Jesse fell in love three times, and each one died tragically and violently. He's terrified to try again.

His thoughts beat around in his brain during the trek home. An outsider's viewpoint on the issue might be helpful. Good thing Saul's awake with nothing better to do than have a discussion about feelings.

"Can I ask you something?" Jesse says after a shower while Saul's lounging on the couch.

Saul switches off the TV and shifts so he's facing Jesse. "Sure, kid. What's up?" When he listens—_really_ listens—Saul looks at Jesse like he's all that exists in the universe. It's heady and overwhelming and impossible to get used to.

Jesse drops into the space beside him, drawing his knees up to his chest. "Well, it's kinda..." He stops, starts over. "I'm thinkin' about goin' on a date, but I don't have the best luck with relationships."

"Hey, the only people I ever made happy in my marriages were divorce lawyers."

Jesse gives him a pointed look. "At least your exes are alive."

"Oh, that's—that's where you were going with that." Saul winces. "Jesse, you're not some sort of bad luck charm. You're out of that world. There's no such thing as a kiss of death—except maybe in mafia movies."

Jesse manages a hint of a smile.

"But you have a new life now," Saul continues. "What happened to Jane and Andrea...that's not gonna happen again. You're safe, Jesse." He holds Jesse's gaze for the length of one heartbeat before glancing away; Jesse's pulse trips under the stare. "If you really like this girl, you should ask her out."

"She asked _me_ out."

"Well, great, you got your work cut out for you. Is she hot?"

Jesse rolls his eyes, because of course Saul would ask that. But the words feel like broken glass under Jesse's skin, reminding him of how superficial Saul is: hot women, fat stacks, expensive suits... Saul could never see him the way Jesse wishes he would. Isn't that why he glances away when he looks at Jesse, repulsed by the scars there? "Yeah, I guess," Jesse mutters.

"You _guess_?"

"I mean, she's pretty, but I don't—I dunno," he says with a shrug. "She's interested, so why not, y'know? It feels good to do normal stuff, so maybe this'll be good too."

"Yeah, go for it. Go out and have fun. You're still young."

"Could you sound more like an old man?"

"Maybe if I started talking about 'kids these days and their rap music.'" He gives Jesse a cheeky smile, and for the briefest moment Jesse wishes he were going on a date with Saul instead of Maggie.


	5. What Is and What Should Never Be

Jesse spends most of Wednesday morning putting far too much effort into his appearance, because he has a date tonight after work and doesn't want to look like a swamp creature. He even stopped at the store last night for some make-up to hide his scars; Jesse doubts any romantic partner would list disfiguring scars as a turn-on. Maybe hiding his imperfections will bring out some long-lost confidence. He likes himself better without them, so he doesn't feel bad about hiding the scars underneath caked-on make-up.

When he's finished, he looks in the mirror and finds himself smiling at his reflection for the first time in months. Maybe this date won't be so bad. Maybe he'll actually have a good time tonight.

Saul notices the spring in Jesse's step when he comes down the stairs. "Look at you all dressed up! What's the occasion?"

"I got a date tonight, remember?" Why does Jesse bother saying things if no one listens?

"Oh, yeah, of course!" Saul pats him on the shoulder like a supportive softball coach; Jesse enjoys the brief touch more than he ought to. "Go get 'em, tiger."

Jesse rolls his eyes with affection. "Don't you have to go to work?"

"I can always spare a couple moments to tease you."

Jesse'd prefer a whole different kind of tease, but he'll take what he can get. "Thoughtful."

"And no housework today," Saul warns him. "You sit on that couch and watch soap operas 'til you go to work like a normal person."

"Didn't know I needed permission to relax. Maybe I like being a housewife."

"Boy, did I miss the boat. Why couldn't I have married you? Would'a saved me a lot of trouble."

Jesse hides a smile as blood pools beneath his cheeks. "I don't think dudes can marry each other, but we can always pretend." Where the fuck is all this flirtation coming from?

"Well, take it easy, honey, you work too hard," Saul says with a smirk before turning to leave. Jesse feels his whole body flush at the endearment. "Oh, and don't put out on the first date. Make her work for it."

Jesse laughs. "Whatever, man. Peace." He's still a little flighty and heady after Saul closes the door behind him. This make-up is a fucking godsend; he can flirt with Saul like it doesn't make his heart race, like it's something they do all the time. Saul even called him "_honey_." So what if it was in jest? Jesse's etching that onto his goddamn tombstone.

After work, they take Maggie's Jeep into town, because asking your date to walk everywhere is hardly romantic. Jesse feels like a dorky twelve-year-old again, being driven around by his friends' parents.

"I need to get that car runnin'," he says, just to broadcast his awareness that the lack of a vehicle isn't a check in the "pros" column.

"You want some help? I wouldn't mind stayin' late a couple nights and helpin' out."

"For real?"

"Yeah, it'll be fun."

Jesse watches the streetlights whip by outside the passenger window. "You wanna do dinner instead of a movie? Sittin' in front of a huge screen doesn't seem like a great way to get to know each other."

"Sure!" Maggie is the most laid-back woman Jesse's ever met. She's fantastic.

She takes him to a barbecue place located in town, near the pizza joint he'd been to with Saul days prior. The interior is dimly lit, cozy in a way that feels familiar. Most of the light comes from the neon signs advertising various brews and the television screens broadcasting a baseball game. The sweet smell of mesquite hangs in the air. On the jukebox, Roger Daltrey sings of being the seeker, which only makes Jesse wish a certain goofy ex-lawyer roommate was here instead.

But it's really a dick move to spend an entire date wishing somebody else was on the other side of the table, so Jesse pushes the thought out of his mind and orders a beer. He doesn't realize how hungry he is until he starts digging into the plate of complementary bread and butter. He decides to avoid discussing his fake past by asking her questions instead. "So how long have you lived here?"

"About fifteen years," she says. "My sister and I grew up in the country. There wasn't much to do out there, so I learned a lot about fixin' cars and farming equipment. But we moved here when I started junior high."

"Did your dad want a boy?"

"Yeah, but he ended up with two girls instead. I was the tomboy, my sister was the dainty little princess." Maggie smirks. "What about you? You got any siblings?"

He doesn't see the harm in being honest here. "Yeah, a younger brother. My parents kinda forgot I existed after he was born. They sent him to private school, made him take piano lessons, all that Yuppie shit. I'm not bummed they didn't do that for me, 'cause I would'a turned out hella nerdy, but I wish they would'a cared more about what I wanted to do, I guess." He rubs the back of his neck.

Maggie smiles like she understands. "My parents did the same thing with Emily. They spoiled her rotten."

"Parents are weird, man," Jesse says, shaking his head. But he'd be lying if he said he didn't miss them now. Just knowing he can't call them up or send a letter makes him wish things had turned out differently. God, do they think he's dead?

Their food arrives, disrupting Jesse's train of thought, and, man, that's the biggest fucking baked potato he's ever seen. Jesse does his best not to eat too fast or make orgasm noises around the food in his mouth. He doesn't want her thinking he's having a stroke. Maybe save that for the second date. Or never.

"Were you born in Alaska, or did you move there?" Maggie asks him.

"I moved there. I was born in Phoenix. And, yeah, it's just as hot as you think. Total desert."

"Is that where they found that giant meth lab?"

Jesse's hand freezes, his fork stilling over his plate. "What—no, I think—that was somewhere else. Santa Fe or somethin'." The back of his neck breaks out in a sweat that has nothing to do with the food.

He scrambles for a topic that won't cross wires with the life of Jesse Pinkman. "Y'know Alaska has a longer coastline than all the other US states combined?" Thank God for the Discovery Channel; one insomnia-fueled night gave him enough conversational factoids about Alaska to last him the rest of the year. It's just as good as having lived there.

After dinner, they take a nighttime stroll through the streets of downtown. Jesse thinks about reaching over and holding her hand as they walk, but he keeps his hands stuffed into the pockets of his jacket. He doesn't want to come across as too forward, because he's not entirely sure what he actually _wants_ here. But Maggie doesn't seem to mind that he keeps his hands to himself. She points out notable restaurants, stores, and hangouts, and Jesse soaks it all up like a sponge.

They stop for ice cream along the way. Jesse's not even embarrassed about ordering a huge sundae with Oreo crumbs and gummy worms, because that shit's delicious. Maggie shows him more of the city as they eat, though Jesse needs two hands to get the ice cream onto his taste buds.

"I didn't know anyone over the age of twelve actually ordered that," she teases him. "Did they give you the kids' discount too?"

"Shut up," Jesse mumbles around a mouthful of fudgey, creamy goodness. "Don't hate 'cause you got lame-ass strawberry. No one likes strawberry ice cream. Are you even a real person?"

Maggie pilfers the spoon from his hand and scoops up a big bite for herself. "It's not bad, I guess."

Jesse makes a noise of offense.

"I mean, if you like all that extra junk on your ice cream."

"Oreo sprinkles and fudge are not 'extra junk,' yo." He's about to say something else when a graffiti symbol on a nearby brick wall stops him cold. He turns, orients himself in front of the wall to get a closer look. A chill runs through his blood and paralyzes him. Sprayed on the brick in bright yellow paint is the golden bee symbol from the methylamine barrels.

Another reminder that the past ripples and reverberates and never truly leaves. Jesse's ghosts have chased him all the way to Omaha.

"Aaron?"

Jesse jumps at the sound of her voice.

"What's up?" Maggie asks, coming to his side for a look at the graffiti. "You see somethin'?"

Jesse wishes he could be honest with her, that he could tell her about the things that haunt him at night, or how he earned his scars. But she would never understand.

He shakes his head and forces himself to keep walking. "Nah, just—checkin' out the dope tags..."

* * *

Jesse stays late after work the next couple of nights to fix up the car with Maggie, much to Saul's dismay. It's not like Saul's going to tell Jesse to stop having a social life, but they can barely have a conversation now before Jesse's going upstairs for a shower and falling into bed. Saul misses Jesse's presence around the house, something comforting and familiar to fill the empty spaces.

And, okay, yeah, maybe Saul's a little jealous of this girl for winning so much of Jesse's attention. The only reason she's hanging out with Jesse is because she _asked_ him, but Saul can't afford to risk that kind of brazen, exposed honesty. He can't infringe on Jesse's comfort here by asking him out, or make Jesse feel that people only like him for what they can get out of him. Saul would be no better than Walt. So, no, he can't say anything. All he can do is hope Jesse's a mind reader who thinks the same thoughts Saul does.

It's all very frustrating, but Jesse seems happy, so Saul can't be too upset about it.

Buck and Billy Ray reveal a curious development on Saturday when Saul's next door borrowing some black beans. "Dunno if you've noticed, but I think that boy's got a crush on you," Buck says.

"Who? Aaron?" Saul scoffs a nervous laugh. "You're joking, right?"

Buck shrugs animatedly. "Maybe I'm wrong, but he gets awful red whenever your name's mentioned."

"Like a little strawberry," Billy Ray adds.

That's the cutest fucking thing Saul's ever heard, but there's got to be another explanation that's more reasonable than Jesse having a crush on him. "And you're basing this off of, what, blushing? Maybe that's not blushing; maybe that's anger." Saul pauses, his arm half stuck in the pantry. "Oh God, is he mad at me?"

Billy Ray laughs like he pities Saul. "You ever get a vibe from him in class? Like maybe he wanted a little _extra credit_?"

Saul thinks back to his pre-Omaha interactions with Jesse. Nothing strikes him as particularly telling, but, of course, he hadn't been looking. And, yeah, maybe there were some unnecessarily long moments of eye contact and flirty smiles way back when Saul had tried to persuade Jesse into buying the nail salon, but... No way. This is Jesse Pinkman. In all the time Saul's known him, Jesse's never been shy about anything. He's always been mouthing off or breaking down when he's not in a drug-induced haze; he wears his heart on his oversized sleeve. So, as much as Saul would love to believe otherwise, this all sounds like wishful thinking.

"No, I don't think he was interested back then. I don't think he's interested _at all_. You guys are just trying to set me up for an awkward conversation, aren't you?"

"Why would we do that?" Billy Ray asks with offense.

"Because you're bored? What do you two even do all day?"

Buck ignores the question. "Why don't you talk to Aaron and see if he don't get redder than a schoolgirl?"

Saul rolls his eyes and heads for the door. "Thanks for the beans."

* * *

"So, did you like it?" Jesse asks Maggie as they're walking out of the theater.

"Oh yeah, I love watching giant robots beat the crap out of each other."

"You sound totally enthused."

"Well, I meant it." She reaches out and twines a hand with Jesse's. Jesse doesn't pull away despite wanting to.

They stroll through the Old Market as the sun begins to set. An orange glow peeks over the tops of buildings and through their crevices. Fluffy clouds drift in the pink sky. The air smells like motor oil and the amalgam of different food aromas wafting from every direction.

Maggie glances over at him. "Can I ask you somethin' weird?"

"Sure."

"How come you haven't tried to kiss me yet? Are you really that old-fashioned?"

"No." Well, that sounds kind of terrible. Jesse tries again. "I mean, yeah." Strike two. "I mean—shit."

"I think it's cute if you are. Not many guys your age are like that."

Jesse rubs the back of his neck with his free hand. "Well, I mean, I'm not—I don't think I... I guess I'm just not feelin' it?" Wow, that's really fucking awful said out loud, but he can't think of a more tactful way to phrase "I'm just not that into you."

"I mean, you're cool and all, I just..." Jesse makes a shrugging gesture that's supposed to encompass some form of emotion. "I just don't feel it." Because how can he tell her that he doesn't feel with her the same pull in his gut when he looks at Saul? Or that her smile doesn't make his stomach do flips the way Saul's does?

They could never have an honest relationship because everything she knows about him is built on a lie. With Maggie, he'll always be Aaron from Alaska, some manufactured identity with a clean past and no drug ties. A total fake.

But with Saul he can be honest and open. With Saul he's Jesse Pinkman, and he trusts Saul intimately because of their shared experiences. He doesn't think he'll ever find a relationship like that, someone who loves him unconditionally, no matter the skeletons in his closet. Maybe Saul could never care for him the way Jesse wishes he would, but would a "normal" person stay if they knew Jesse's sordid past? If they knew he killed three people and built half of the greatest drug empire in history?

But Maggie takes the blow in stride, doesn't even frown. "That's alright. That's just the way it is sometimes."

Jesse stops walking, stunned by her lackadaisical response. "For real? You're not even mad?"

"Why would I be mad? Sometimes you feel the spark, sometimes you don't. It's nobody's fault. At least we tried."

He lifts his eyebrows. "Wow, that's, like, way more mature than I was expecting."

Her mouth twists into a smile. "Have you ever broken up with a human woman before?"

"Once, but that was..." He trails off, starts over. "I thought there'd be more crying and yelling and throwing things."

"You watch too much TV."

"Yeah, probably." They sit together on a nearby bench and watch the cars roll by. Jesse sighs, leaning back. "I'm sorry it didn't work out."

"It's cool. Duane was the same way."

"You guys dated?"

"We tried to. But I think he's too hung up on losin' his brother to feel joy."

Jesse stares at his hands. He could easily be as hollowed out as Duane if the dice had fallen another way. He shivers though he's not cold. "We can still fix up the car though, right?"

"Of course. We don't have to stop bein' friends, Aaron." She looks at him like he's a naïve, charming martian with no clue how things work on Earth.

"That's good," he murmurs, rubbing his thumb over the tattoo on his arm. After a moment, he says, "You wanna get ice cream? That always makes me feel better."

* * *

Saul's cooking dinner when Jesse comes through the door. He makes a valiant effort not to seem too excited, because something probably went wrong if Jesse's home while the sun's still up. "Hey, kid! You're home early. Did something happen?"

"Yeah, we broke up," Jesse says, kicking off his shoes by the door.

Saul's not cruel enough to be pleased about that. "Oh no! I'm sorry."

Jesse waves a dismissive hand. "It's cool though. No big deal."

"Is she okay?"

"Yeah, it was totally amicable." He pulls up a chair at the table and sits down.

"So what was the problem?"

Jesse shrugs, fixing him with an open, honest look that makes Saul's breath catch in his throat. "No problem. Sometimes you feel the spark, sometimes you don't, y'know?"

Saul smiles sadly to himself, because he _knows_. "Yeah." He wonders if Buck and Billy Ray are right, if Jesse could possibly have a crush on him. Saul doubts he'd ever be that lucky, but stranger things have happened. Stranger things like Jesse tracking him down to Omaha, Nebraska in hopes of adopting Brock.

"I couldn't tell her this," Jesse continues, "but it was also 'cause I didn't want a relationship built on a fake ID. I could never tell her the truth about me and expect her to stay."

"Aw, c'mon, kid, there's gotta be somebody out there who's perfect for you." Somebody like Saul Goodman.

"I dunno. I doubt it." Jesse slumps over the table, his chin propped up on his fist.

Saul comes over to him, swings around the kitchen island so he can focus entirely on Jesse. "Hey, Jesse, you're a great catch. And you're gonna find someone who loves everything about you. I promise."

Jesse looks at him in wonder, as if no one's ever told him he's worth a damn. God, those big, blue eyes...

"Besides, it's taco night. No one can be sad on taco night."

"Is that a thing?"

"I'm making it one. Get used to it."

Jesse smiles, and he might blush a little. That might be a thing that happens. Saul doesn't have a lot of time to investigate, because the oven timer's going off. But he could swear he saw some color in Jesse's cheeks, and it makes his heart leap in his chest.

* * *

"Yo, can I sleep in here?"

Jesse's whispered words jostle Saul out of a deep sleep, and he's still startled to see Jesse standing in the doorway of his bedroom.

Saul shuts an eye to keep the moonlight from blinding him. "What?"

"Can I sleep in here?" Jesse asks again, shifting his weight to his other foot and rubbing his arm. The lost, terrified look in his eyes speaks volumes about why he's standing here now. How had Saul not heard him?

"Yeah, sure," he mumbles, closing his eyes again. He feels the sag in the mattress when Jesse lies beside him. Jesse smells like Axe and fear sweat. He tugs the blankets around him and cuddles closer to Saul. Saul lifts his head off of the pillow to peek at him. Jesse's lying on his side with his back to Saul, hands drawn up to his face and fisted in the blankets. Saul turns over so they're sort of spooning; Jesse doesn't even flinch or move away.

He watches the slow rise and fall of Jesse's ribcage. Maybe Buck and Billy Ray are right, and Saul's so wrapped up in his own disbelief that he can't see what's right in front of him. Jesse's likely too scared of rejection to say anything, terrified that an unwanted advance will earn him an eviction. A rational person wouldn't kick someone out of the house because of a crush, but Jesse's lived under Walt's thumb so long he's probably forgotten how normal people think.

Saul feels shitty for all the married couple jokes he made about Walt and Jesse; Walt might as well have been an abusive husband for all the baggage Jesse's carrying because of him.

Jesse needs someone who will be gentle with him. Someone who will heal his scars, not wound him further.

Saul feels the strangest urge to kiss the back of Jesse's neck. He shuts his eyes, breathes in the smell of him. He wouldn't mind waking up with Jesse's scent absorbed into the pillows and sheets.

Fuck it. He's going for it. He can always claim he was sleep-talking if Jesse's reaction isn't what Saul's hoping for.

"Hey, Jesse?" Saul murmurs. He holds his breath in anticipation of an answer.

Jesse replies with a soft snore and hugs the pillow tighter.

God damn it.


	6. Since I've Been Loving You

Jesse wakes up that morning alone in Saul's bed. He stretches his limbs out across the mattress. The other side of the bed's gone cold, because Saul's not a fan of the whole awkward morning-after thing.

But Saul's scent still lingers on the sheets and the pillows Jesse's burying his face into. Jesse breathes it in, desperate for a piece of him. He shuts his eyes and can almost imagine living in this house and sharing his life with Saul, coming home to warm hands and gentle kisses, maybe the pitter-patter of little feet as the years go by. But the image doesn't hold. Life has already handed Jesse a blessing far beyond his expectations; it's selfish of him to want more.

Jesse forces himself out of bed and makes his way downstairs where Saul's working in the kitchen. Saul turns around at the smacking sound of Jesse's footsteps on the tile. "You sleep okay?"

His face heats up at the memory of sliding into Saul's bed and absorbing the warmth of his body. "Yeah, thanks."

"No problem. What're friends for?" Jesse moves closer to the countertop and sees two bulging muffins on a plate. "I saved you some breakfast," Saul says, pushing the plate across the counter. "If you want."

"Sure." Jesse sidles up beside him and leans his weight against the counter. He's picking apart a muffin when he realizes Saul's staring at him pretty intently. Jesse does his best to act as if he doesn't notice, but he's never been great at feigning disinterest when people he's attracted to might be checking him out.

Saul tilts his head and narrows his eyes, leaning in a little closer. Jesse holds his breath. "Are you wearing make-up?"

God, is that what he'd been staring at? "No," Jesse mumbles. He'd been so tired last night he hadn't bothered to shower. The make-up must have rubbed off in his sleep, smeared across his face in a way that's glaringly obvious.

"You tryin' to impress some girl? 'Cause if the scars are a deal-breaker, forget about her."

Jesse winces, turning away as Saul moves in to study his face. "Why? I'm hideous," he says through his teeth. "Look what those motherfuckers did to me!" It's the most he's said about his enslavement, and Jesse wishes he could take the words back, feeling too vulnerable when it's just blurted out like that.

Saul reaches out and hooks a finger beneath Jesse's chin. Jesse shuts his eyes, sick under the scrutiny of his gaze. "But you survived," Saul reminds him in a gentle voice. "You're the last man standing. You don't need to hide that." He lifts his other hand and rubs his thumb over the long scar on Jesse's cheek, revealing the long white crescent. "And nobody should ever ask you to."

Jesse's mouth opens in awe. He's never wanted to kiss Saul more than he does right now. He's been holding back for a myriad of reasons, but God damn it, Jesse just wants one nice thing he gets to keep. And Saul looks like he's waiting for Jesse to act on this thing that's got him twisted up into knots.

Jesse can't stay away. God, he just _can't_.

So Jesse throws caution to the wind, gets his hands full of Saul's shirt, and seals their mouths together. Saul's mouth is softness and give under Jesse's own, and Saul turns his head a little so he can kiss Jesse back. Jesse lets him lead, just focusing on the way his lips feel, the sweet taste of dopamine on his tongue, the warmth of a hand sliding around the back of his neck. Saul is a magnificent kisser, sparking up something inside of Jesse he feared was long dead. It's as if each time their mouths move together, Saul's breathing another reason to wake up into Jesse's lungs. Air infused with love and the promise of something better.

Jesse doesn't ever want to stop kissing him.

And it takes a minute or two for their mouths to slow and eventually break apart. Jesse gazes at him in wonder and reverence that Saul could ever see him as someone worth kissing. He's got plenty of things on his mind, but what bubbles out is: "I thought you couldn't stand the sight of me. That's why you'd always look away."

Saul's thin-lipped smile fades into something agonized, like Jesse's words have wounded him. "What? No, never!" His hand slides to Jesse's face, palm molding to the curve of his cheek. "Jesse, I could stare at you forever, but I didn't think that'd be socially acceptable. So, yeah, I looked away. Y'know how they say you'll go blind if you stare at the sun too long?"

"Or if you look into the Ark from _Raiders_."

"Very funny," Saul says, smiling like he's humoring Jesse. "You're gorgeous, kid—hey, don't roll your eyes. I mean it, Pretty Boy."

A grin tugs at the corner of Jesse's lips. "'Pretty Boy'?"

Saul kisses the smirky line of Jesse's mouth, making him giggle. "I think it's perfect. Very descriptive."

Jesse lays his hands on Saul's chest. He could definitely get used to rough, wide hands on his hips and the swell of an erection pressed against his ass. He could probably suck a dick if he had to. Totally. It's not like he hasn't thought about it before. Jesse's gay as hell, yo.

"Is this your first time makin' out with a dude?" he asks, because he has to know if he's the only one treading new territory here.

"It's that obvious, huh?"

"Yeah, totally," Jesse lies. "You need some practice." He tugs at the hem of Saul's t-shirt to bring him nearer.

Saul lifts an eyebrow. "Are you volunteering?"

Jesse answers that by covering Saul's mouth with his own.

They stay there in the middle of the kitchen, their mouths breaking apart and reconvening, hands sliding over arms and fisting handfuls of clothing. Jesse can feel _things_ pressing against his thigh, and, yeah, it's a little weird to have another boner in the room—especially one that's _touching him_—but the longer it stays there the more he gets used to it. It's kind of hot that Saul's turned on this much just by kissing him. Of course, Jesse's hard too, but what _doesn't_ give him a boner?

Enough time passes for Jesse to sigh in defeat when he glances at the clock again. "I have to work today," he grumbles around Saul's kisses.

"So I'm dating a mechanic, huh? Y'know this means I will never stop making lube jokes, right?"

Jesse laughs and holds onto the feeling as long as he can. "God, you're so gross." He kisses the smugness off of Saul's mouth, because kissing Saul is something he can do now; he's going to abuse the fuck out of this newfound privilege.

Saul's fingers tighten in Jesse's shirt. "C'mon, just call in sick. Say you have a severe lack of vitamin D in your life." He wiggles his eyebrows, just in case Jesse didn't get the joke. "Admit it, you're tempted."

"Yeah, a little," Jesse says, because he so is. "But I don't wanna rush this." He tips his head back as Saul trails kisses over the line of his jaw. "This is totally new for me. I wanna slow down instead of just blowin' through everything without gettin' a chance to really enjoy it, y'know?"

Saul pauses. "I'm sorry, what was that about blowing?"

Jesse exhales a chuckle through his nose and shoves a playful hand at Saul's chest. "For real though. Just be patient, alright?"

Saul's face shifts into something sad, like he's afraid he's done something wrong. His hand slides along the length of Jesse's tattooed arm. "Hey, Jess', I'm just—you know that's just me, don't you? I make jokes. That's what I do. I'm not—I'm not trying to pressure you into anything, you know that, right?"

Jesse nods. Saul's hands are a lot warmer than he remembers. "I know. But I just got permission to kiss you. I wanna enjoy that a little while longer." Saul seals their lips together, wanting every bit of Jesse he's allowed.

* * *

It's a cruel joke that Jesse would find himself in a healthy, happy relationship and not even be able to properly enjoy it. He doesn't hate his job, but he'd rather be making out with Saul right now than working on cars. But, whatever, it's just eight hours.

He tries to duck inside and avoid Maggie, because, yeah, he did just break up with her yesterday. That's gonna be a little awkward, no matter how well she seemed to take it. But she catches him as he's shoving his bag into the lockers. "Hey you."

Jesse spazzes and flails at the sound of her voice. "Yo. What's up?"

"Duane says it's probably gonna be slow today, so we can work on your car if you want."

"Yeah, that'd be ace. Thanks." He shuts the locker door, which clangs a little too loudly. He's never broken up with someone and then had to see them every day. He's used to swallowing his feelings for fear of rejection, so being the rejecter instead of the rejectee is a whole new level of awkward for Jesse. Maybe it isn't actually awkward at all, but it feels like it should be, and that makes him a little dizzy.

Maggie watches him as they walk out to the yard. "Somethin' happen?"

"What? No."

"You're smiling."

Jesse realizes with a start that she's only mentioning this because it's strange, and he's not sure how to feel about that. The act of him smiling must be rare enough for her to notice it. Jesus.

He shrugs, stuffs his hands into his pockets. "I dunno, I guess I just feel good today..." Yeah, he's not gonna mention that he hooked up with his roommate the morning after breaking up with Maggie. No good lies down that road.

But Jesse really needs lessons in lying, because Maggie doesn't look convinced. "Really? 'Cause my sister has that same smile when she talks about Rick, the _dreamy_ captain of the football team."

Jesse's face goes stupidly hot. He opts for silence here.

"So who is she?"

He rubs the back of his neck and looks away. "Nobody..." Damn it, why can't he stop smiling?

"I won't be mad. Unless it's my sister, 'cause you're a little too old for her, no offense. C'mon, we're friends. Friends talk about this stuff."

When they reach the Nissan, Jesse leans against the driver's side, watching Maggie's face for any signs of jealousy or heartbreak that he's crushing on someone else. He doesn't see any, but that doesn't mean they aren't there. He digs the heel of his shoe into the dirt. "It's not a girl," he admits, dropping his gaze to the ground.

Her eyes go wide in realization. "Why didn't you tell me?" she asks, sounding wounded but also like she already knows the answer.

Playing up the gay thing will probably take the sting out of his rejection, so Jesse's gonna go with that. He shrugs again. "Didn't know you'd be cool with it."

"Well, I am. You wanna tell me about him?"

"He's my roommate." Jesse feels his face stretch into a smile around the words. "I've liked him for a while, and he, uh, finally kissed me this morning."

"Aw, that's great! I'm happy for you guys." Maggie tosses him a wrench from the toolbox by her feet. Jesse fumbles with the catch but manages not to drop the thing. "How'd you meet him?"

Jesse wants to be honest with her—at least, as honest as he can be in this capacity. But how long will it be until he can't keep all the lies straight in his head? So Jesse just says, "We used to know each other. He moved here a couple months ago, and when I came here needin' a place to stay for a bit he hooked me up."

"He sounds real nice. And maybe he had a little crush on you from the start if he let you live with him."

Jesse considers that for a moment. He hadn't said they were friends, which Maggie probably picked up on. So, yeah, it's not too outlandish to think Saul might have been nursing an attraction of his own to Jesse. Which colors every interaction Jesse had with him before Omaha so fucking awfully, because Jesse was kind of a douche, too wrapped up in his quest for Mr. White's approval to see anything clearly. And then it was all about revenge, and if that meant causing a bit of collateral damage to get back at Mr. White, well, Jesse was too self-absorbed to care.

He wonders if Hallmark makes an "I'm sorry I punched you in the face and almost shot you" card. Probably not.

Jesse just shrugs and says, "Yeah, maybe."

Duane steps out of the garage an hour or so later, boots kicking up gravel. "Hey, you two lovebirds."

Maggie snickers. "Lovebirds?" That's probably so much funnier now that she thinks Jesse's gay.

"Whatever." Duane makes a face. "Chris is sick with some sort of flu, so these Jays tickets are a total waste," he says, whipping two colorful tickets out of his pocket.

Jesse hates that the first thing that falls out of his mouth is, "So scalp 'em."

Duane lifts an eyebrow. "I was gonna give 'em to you guys, but thanks for the life-hack." He moves to stuff the tickets into his pocket, but Maggie stops him.

"Wait, wait, we'll take 'em!"

Jesse gapes at her. "We will?"

Maggie gives him a subtle wink. "Yeah, of course. Aaron loves baseball."

Jesse stops himself from saying, "I do?" Maybe he shouldn't blurt out the first fucking thought that pops into his head. Silence is golden, or whatever.

Duane hands over the tickets, and Maggie beams at him. "When's the game?" she asks.

"Tomorrow night. Don't worry, I'll let you go home early."

"You're the best boss ever," Maggie says.

"Yeah, I'm fantastic." Duane turns and heads back to the garage. "You guys have fun."

"Who's Chris?" Jesse asks Maggie while Duane's walking away.

"Duane's BFF." She waits until Duane's disappeared before placing both tickets in Jesse's hand. "You should take your roommate."

Jesse's mouth opens for a second without any sound coming out. Then: "Wait, what about you?"

Maggie scoffs amusement. "You guys should go. It's the perfect date."

Jesse sputters out fragments of gratitude, because he's terrible at accepting impromptu kind gestures. "I dunno, I don't think he's a big sports guy." He snaps his fingers. "Hey, y'know what? Give 'em to your sister, have her ask out that football captain dude she's got her eye on. He'd probably go for it, right? I mean, I already got the dude I had an eye on."

Maggie tilts her head and stares at him like he's an enchanting artifact in a museum. "You're really somethin' special, y'know that?"

Jesse's face goes hot, bashful under the compliment. He rubs the back of his neck and glances at the car. "We should, uh, we should try this thing out, see if it runs."

Jesse gets the car started with its engine purring under the hood like it's straight off the lot. After a quick test drive, the thing doesn't fall apart or randomly break, so Jesse figures he's done a damn good job. Even Duane comes out of the garage to gawk at the resurrected vehicle.

"You actually did it," he says, reverent in the face of Jesse's dedication or ability—or both.

Jesse shrugs like it's nothing. "Maggie helped a lot."

Maggie smiles at him.

Duane digs the toe of his shoe into the dirt. "Well, I'm a man of my word, so"—he spreads his hands—"car's yours."

Jesse switches off the engine, swings open the driver's door. "Thanks, man. I appreciate it. You ever need anything, just let me know, alright?"

Duane jerks a thumb behind him at the shop. "You wanna mop the front? My back's killin' me."

Jesse thinks he can do that much for a guy who just gave him a car.

* * *

The eight hours until Jesse comes home are the longest of Saul's life, and he's got nothing to do but wait. All he can think about is what he'd like to do with Jesse when they're finally alone again. He feels like an asshole, because Jesse made his feelings clear on any avenues of sexual touching. But Saul's not going to fuck this up by moving too fast. Whatever Jesse wants is the focus here.

Since they can't have their first official date until Saturday, Saul figures he ought to do something special for Jesse tonight. So he fixes up a fancy spaghetti dinner and even splurges for a decent bottle of wine, because he's classy like that. He's in the middle of setting the table when Jesse comes home. "Don't come in here!" Saul warns him, trying to shield the table with his body. "Go get your shower. You don't even wanna see the kitchen right now."

"Did you make a mess?" Jesse asks with way more exasperation in his voice than he's entitled to.

"Y—yeah! Huge mess! Absolute disaster area. For your own sanity, you should just not come in here for maybe the next ten minutes." He watches Jesse climb the stairs, hears him grumble something under his breath about messy boyfriends. Saul revels in the fact that he's Jesse's _boyfriend_ now; he hasn't had a relationship to be excited about in forever.

He gets the table set in the time it takes Jesse to finish washing up. Saul's lighting a candle for the centerpiece as Jesse descends the stairs. "Good, you're just in time for dinner!" He switches the kitchen light off and lets the candlelight lead the way.

The dorkiest grin spreads over Jesse's face when he sees the display on the dining table; Saul's heart skips a beat or two. "Oh my God, you did all this for me?"

"Nah, I thought I'd treat myself, but since you're here you might as well join me." He's still using humor as a shield, because the idea of Jesse actually liking Saul enough to date him blows his mind. "And is that how you dress for dinner?" he adds, referring to Jesse's t-shirt and boxer shorts ensemble.

Jesse scowls at him. "I always dress like this when we eat. And, yo, you're wearin' sweatpants that say 'Budweiser.'"

"Excuse you, they're lounge pants."

"Do you even drink beer?"

"I'm sorry, I'm not taking any more questions today. Now sit down and have dinner with your messy boyfriend."

Jesse pulls Saul in for a kiss, and Saul's happy to oblige him. The rasp of stubble against his skin is deliciously new and foreign, enough to send the chill of arousal down his spine. He opens his mouth a little, curls his fingers in Jesse's t-shirt. Jesse tilts his head and licks at Saul's tongue for a moment before breaking away. "You're awesome, y'know that?"

"I might remember you telling me this before, but I don't mind hearing it again."

Jesse moves for the chair. "Can we eat now? I'm starved."

Saul stops him before he can sit down. "Slow down, kiddo. This is a date, remember?" He pulls the chair out for Jesse, and Jesse snorts a laugh under his breath, mouths, "Wow," as Saul sits across from him. "A date you don't even have to put on pants for."

Jesse's face is even more knee-knockingly gorgeous by candlelight. Saul can see the hint of color in his cheeks. "Yeah, the next few'll probably have a more strict dress code. I finally got the car fixed."

"Really? That's great!"

"Yeah, I drove it home and everything. We can take it out tomorrow if you want."

"That'd be perfect, actually."

"You got somethin' planned?"

"Maybe I do," Saul says. "You'll just have to wait and see."

Jesse hides a smile by stuffing food into his mouth. "This spaghetti is the bomb," he says after a couple bites. "I never would'a imagined you bein' a good cook."

"We've all got our secrets."

Jesse nods as if that's profound somehow. "Yeah. But if you find the right person to share 'em with, they don't have to be secrets anymore." He gives Saul a meaningful look and the twitch of a smirk at the corner of his mouth. Saul feels a flutter in his chest that tells him he's found the perfect person.

"I guess it's not gonna be weird anymore when I sleep with you, huh?" Jesse says after a moment.

Saul's not even going to think about the level of subtextual innuendo in that sentence. "It was never weird, Jesse. You suffered an unimaginable tragedy. Well, a lot of them, actually, but that's not the point. You deserve to have something good for once."

"We both do," Jesse says. Saul hadn't realized how lonely he'd been until Jesse came along and filled the empty spaces in his life.

He raises his glass. "To something good?"

Jesse grins and does the same. "To something good."

* * *

After dinner, Jesse tries his hardest not to immediately follow Saul into the bedroom. He doesn't want to seem too clingy or needy, despite the fact that he totally is. This is the first intimate relationship he's had in over half a year. Of course he's going to be insatiable.

Jesse finds his way into Saul's room after the lights are off and the house has gone still with the hum of the A/C. He peers into the room. Saul's lying on the bed with his back to Jesse. There's a chance he might be asleep, but Jesse's going to risk it. "Yo, you awake?" he whispers into the dark.

Saul makes a sound of acknowledgement.

"Can I come in?"

"Yeah, c'mon, kid. Cuddle up," Saul mumbles, sounding half-asleep.

Jesse treads carefully across the floor, as if he's sneaking in somewhere forbidden. He climbs into the bed and slides alongside Saul. "I didn't have any nightmares. I just thought this is somethin' we can do now that we're"—he searches for the word—"boyfriends." A thrill races up his spine.

Saul rolls over so he's facing Jesse. "You're always welcome here, Jesse." He slinks an arm around Jesse's waist and tucks him up close. The line of Saul's body is solid and warm, and Jesse's filled with the inexplicable desire to hold him. He loops one arm around Saul's ribs and tucks the other inside the space between his neck and shoulder.

Saul's hand pushes its way underneath Jesse's t-shirt, his fingers traveling up the valley of Jesse's spine. Jesse's mouth falls open in a soft, startled sound of surprise. It's been ages since someone's touched him like this, just the faintest, feather-light caress. He wonders what it might be like to kiss Saul in the dark, and then he doesn't have to wonder, because Saul's moving in and kissing Jesse's open mouth. Saul kisses like it's something he could do all day and never tire of. It doesn't feel like it's leading up to anything, like Saul's trying to get him in the mood for something more. His mouth is soft and gentle and honest in a way Jesse's never known.

Saul spreads his hand out over the planes of Jesse's shoulder blades as his kisses turn slow and sluggish. Jesse gets his mouth free to say, "Yo, you can sleep if you want. I'll be here in the morning. I'm not goin' anywhere."

Saul seems to like that. He nestles in closer to Jesse and closes his eyes. Jesse's never found it easier to sleep than when he's cuddled into Saul's chest, holding him tight.


	7. All My Love

Jesse wakes up in the same position he fell asleep, which he's impressed by; he usually tosses and turns and kicks off the blankets in a restless fit. Saul's fast asleep alongside him with one hand spread wide over Jesse's lower back. Jesse can't help but be curious about how his body might feel under his fingers. Apparently this relationship has turned him into a sweaty-palmed virgin all over again.

He sneaks a hand underneath Saul's t-shirt, maps the slope of his spine with his fingers. Saul's warm and weighty beneath Jesse's hands, and Jesse skims over his back, trails over the curve of his hip. Saul makes a soft sound and shifts into the touch, nudging his hips forward. Jesse jerks his hand away, because something hard brushed against his palm, and he's not entirely ready for that yet.

Saul stirs awake and blinks an eye open. "I thought you wanted to take things slow."

Jesse sucks in a startled breath. "Y—you pushed into my hand."

"'Cause you were fondling me in my sleep."

"That makes it sound weird. I was just"—he tries to find a better word—"touching." No luck.

"Still sounds weird." Saul nestles a hand around the back of Jesse's head, bringing him in closer.

Jesse breathes out a laugh and buries his face in Saul's chest. "Shut up." Saul smells like Old Spice and aftershave, like a home Jesse never knew he had. "Fine, maybe I won't touch you anymore."

"You're breakin' my heart, Pretty Boy."

Jesse grins despite himself. "Don't call me that."

"I call it like I see it, yo." Saul smirks at him and captures Jesse's mouth under his own. Jesse learns it's hard to kiss when you're smiling.

"Well, maybe you should get some glasses."

"My eyesight's fine, kiddo. Maybe you're the one who needs your eyes checked." Saul traces his thumb along Jesse's cheek and kisses the scars there. Jesse swoons under the affection, thrilled that Saul embraces the darkest parts of him.

He pushes his fingers through Saul's messy hair. Jesse tries to encapsulate how Saul makes elation and joy flow through him like a drug, but the best he can come up with is, "You're so awesome." Close enough.

"You're pretty great yourself." Saul kisses Jesse's mouth once more before forcing himself to sit up in the bed. "You in the mood for breakfast?"

Jesse's in the mood for staying in bed all day making out, but he knows that could lead to something he's not ready for. So he says, "Yeah, totally," and follows Saul down the staircase.

"So how do you feel about amusement parks?"

"Is that where we're goin' today?"

"Well, that depends on your answer."

"Our first legit date is at an amusement park?" Jesse doesn't know whether to be charmed or find that hilarious.

Saul pauses his descent down the stairs and glances back at Jesse. "That's not too cheesy, is it? I thought it'd be fun, but we can do a movie or somethin' if you want." Saul looks tragically disappointed, like he's accepted he's going to get this wrong over and over again.

Jesse reaches for his hand and twines their fingers together. "No way. We're doin' this. I haven't had a cheesy, silly date in, like, forever." Saul doesn't seem like he's tried dating since he got here, which, God, that's depressing. Did he just move here in blank resignation that his life was going to be lonely and unremarkable? "I went all the way to Santa Fe with Jane to see some dumb paintings. I'll totally go to an amusement park with you."

Saul smiles, and the intelligent part of Jesse's brain turns to glue.

* * *

They take Jesse's car on the road that afternoon because he's eager to show it off. Saul seems pretty impressed by the thing when he slides into the passenger seat.

"Nice, huh?" Jesse grins. "That's all leather interior right there."

"Just like home." Saul switches on the radio and sinks in the cushioned seat.

Jesse stares at him like he's an unpleasant stain on the carpet. "Yo, what're you doin'?"

Saul fiddles with the radio knob. "There's this nifty little thing called 'music' that some people like to listen to when they drive."

"Okay, smartass. Since when does shotgun pick the music?"

"Since, well, now." He cranks up the volume as AC/DC pours out of the speakers. "Wow, that's a pretty impressive sound system. Is that custom?"

Honestly, Jesse should have expected nothing less from him. It's not like Saul's taste in music is terrible, just..._unexpected_. How many of Saul's likes and dislikes are part of a carefully-constructed persona? Is he even the same guy Jesse knew back in Albuquerque?

Jesse decides some questions are better left unanswered.

The amusement park reminds Jesse more of a carnival than anything else. Compact booths glowing with blinking lights hold toy prizes, cotton candy, refreshments, and games of skill. Behind a long row of concession stands, an enormous Ferris wheel sits in the middle of the park, twinkling against the sky. Off in the distance Jesse can see the Tilt-A-Whirl, a rainbow-colored carousel, and a roller coaster. The air smells of fried grease and oiled metal. Everything's decorated in the spirit of the upcoming holiday; toy spiders sit in fake cobwebs, plastic skeletons—at least Jesse _hopes_ they're plastic—litter the dark corners. Pumpkins with various expressions top booths and hay bales.

It reminds him a bit of the carnival stage from Left 4 Dead 2. Which is awesome, as long as there's no zombie clowns.

"I haven't been to a place like this in years," Jesse marvels aloud, staring up at the rides that stand tall amongst the clouds. "God, I think it was before Jake was even born. We went to Cliff's. You ever been there?"

Saul shakes his head. "Can't say that I have."

"It's pretty dope. But I haven't been on a roller coaster in, like, ten years."

"Your parents never took both of you?"

Jesse shakes his head. "By the time Jake was old enough not to puke all over his shoes ridin' the kiddie coasters, I had to move in with my aunt so I could take care of her. So if they took him, I never knew about it."

"Well, think of it this way: very little has changed in your decade-plus hiatus from the amusement park scene," Saul says as they walk through the crowd. "Pretty much everything's exactly the same as it was fifty years ago, 'cept there's more gruesome accidents."

"That's uplifting." They pass by a ride spinning passengers upside down in a cage that looks like some sort of torture contraption. "I bet that thing's responsible for, like, half those accidents."

Saul lifts an eyebrow and looks meaningfully at the ride. "You wanna try your luck?"

"I didn't come this far just to get done in by a carnival ride."

"I was joking about the gruesome accidents. Of course there's gonna be more accidents because there's more rides available. It's just statistics."

"Still on my 'hell no' list."

"What about haunted houses? No one's ever died in a haunted house."

"That you know about," Jesse corrects. "One time they found a dude hanging in a funhouse in, like, the seventies."

"The most recent haunted house death that comes to mind is from the seventies? I think my point still stands." Saul tugs him in the direction of the looming mansion.

Jesse digs his heels into the gravel. "Yo, why are you so eager to get me outta the picture? You take out an insurance policy on me?"

"Fear is nature's aphrodisiac. The heart gets excited, confuses the brain, and, bam, you're thinkin' the reason your pulse is all crazy is because of the girl—or guy—next to you. That's why you're supposed to see a horror movie on the first date."

"Oh yeah? Well, I don't need some bullshit aphrodisiac to be attracted to you." A flood of exhilaration flows through Jesse at how much truth is in that sentence. Saul just smiles as the wind rustles his hair, like Jesse's honesty doesn't bother him at all.

Jesse spots an arcade a short distance away. "You wanna get your ass kicked in _Mortal Kombat_?"

"You can do anything you want to my ass, Jesse."

They spend an hour or so in the arcade playing games, and Jesse learns Saul's a hell of a skee-ball player. But Jesse wipes the floor with him in _Street Fighter_ and _Mortal Kombat_. They make a pretty good team in the dual-player shooting games, wiping out hordes of zombies, aliens, and dinosaurs.

By the time they stumble out of the darkened arcade, the sky's melted into pink and purple evening hues. Light bulbs from the attractions twinkle like stars against the violet canvas of the heavens. The temperature's dropped a couple degrees, making Jesse shiver a little. He's no stranger to cold nights, but the breeze is enough to chill his skin.

"How can you be cold?" Saul asks. "You're wearing a jacket."

"How are you _not_ cold?" Jesse bites back. Saul's only protection against the elements is long sleeves underneath a t-shirt.

"All my bulging, rippling muscles insulate me from the cold," Saul says with a straight face. At Jesse's look of skepticism, he adds, "After six months, you get used to it." Saul links an arm around Jesse's waist and hugs him close, letting him siphon some of his warmth. Jesse's face goes red, because they're _in public_, but he doesn't fight or pull away. Saul's warm against him, and Jesse will take any excuse to cuddle.

"You're not afraid of heights, are you?" Saul asks as they near the Ferris wheel.

Jesse knows what's coming. "Maybe. I got stuck at the top of a Ferris wheel once."

"Now that you got a boyfriend, getting stuck at the top might not be so bad," Saul says, and Jesse giggles to himself, because Saul's his _boyfriend_. He's never getting over that. "C'mon, humor me. I'll buy you some cotton candy or somethin'."

Jesse lets Saul steer him in the direction of the ride. "You sure know how to sweet-talk a guy, huh?"

"Not to toot my own horn, but I have been known to negotiate some pretty solid deals."

"I think you did more bribing than negotiating."

"Let's not get too caught up in semantics. Point is, we're focusing on you agreeing to ride the Ferris wheel with me."

Jesse never actually agreed, but he's not going to bring that up now, not when Saul looks so sweet and pleased with himself.

Jesse cuddles close to him during their first ascent on the ride, content with enjoying the view and watching the ground grow farther and farther away. Saul drapes an arm around Jesse's shoulders. Mr. Casual.

"I'm not actually afraid of heights," Jesse admits after a moment.

Saul lays a hand over his chest, faking shock. "I am appalled that you would lie to me."

"I didn't lie. I just said I _might be_ afraid of heights. You're gettin' rusty, Counsellor." Jesse gives him a flirty smile that Saul returns in kind.

"Maybe you should try being uglier so I'm not distracted by your face, Pretty Boy."

Jesse laughs a light, airy sound. "Yeah, sure, I'll get right on that." He leans his head against Saul's shoulder. "As long as I get my cotton candy."

"You drive a hard bargain, kid. But what the hell, I'm a sucker. I'll buy you two."

"Man, I'm awesome at this negotiating thing." Jesse glances out the window when the ride slows to a stop at its highest point. He can see downtown Omaha from here, the world spread out before him like a banquet of earth under a starry evening sky. "The view up here is dope."

"Yeah," Saul agrees, but he's not looking out the window. He's looking at Jesse. Jesse flicks his gaze to Saul, notices the way Saul's staring at his face like he wants to freeze it and frame it forever. Jesse wets his lips, his mouth dry under the intensity of Saul's gaze.

Saul tips Jesse's chin up and brings their mouths together. Jesse makes a pathetic noise of want around the kiss, and Saul tilts his head a little to suck at the corner of Jesse's lips. He follows the line of Jesse's jaw, mouths kisses over his throat. Jesse whimpers and clutches at Saul's t-shirt. Saul skims a slow, unassuming hand along the length of Jesse's thigh. Jesse's first instinct is to jerk away, but he stays still, waiting to see where this goes. Saul's hand curls around the inside of Jesse's thigh, his mouth still sucking kisses into Jesse's neck. He squeezes, and Jesse shudders out a gasp that gets Saul's hand sliding again.

Jesse's acutely aware that Saul's hand is dangerously close to his crotch right now. He can feel the heat of his palm through his jeans, then, whoa, that is _so_ not his thigh. The solid press against Jesse's dick makes his body twitch. He gasps a startled noise that makes Saul immediately pull his hand away to rest on his knee. "Sorry," Saul murmurs against Jesse's throat. "Got a little carried away there."

"Yeah, just a little." Jesse's heart is still thumping madly in his chest, but he can practically sense the chagrin leaking off of Saul in waves. So he reaches out and covers Saul's hand with his own, lacing their fingers together. "But it's cool. Don't worry about it." Jesse squeezes his hand to convey that he'd miss Saul's awkward, clumsy advances if they stopped happening, that he doesn't want to be anywhere else but here.

They spend the rest of the ride in a lazy sprawl against each other, Jesse tucked alongside Saul, and Saul with his arm around Jesse's shoulders as they watch the city rise and fall outside the window.

* * *

Night's wrapped around their sleepy little street when Saul and Jesse finally make it home. They linger in Jesse's idling car parked in the driveway, listening to the radio and watching the leaves rustle in the breeze. Jesse stretches out while he waits for the song to end, because Saul insisted they stay in the car for the entire duration of "Ramble On." But Jesse's enjoying being here with him; gone is the pressure of making a flawless first impression or hiding behind pretense. They can just exist together in this space where it's okay to be whatever you are.

"You got a stoner past I don't know about?" Jesse asks, playful.

Saul smirks at him. "You've seen my room, right?"

Saul's bedroom is a shrine to the '60's hippie aesthetic; the walls are covered in posters of The Beatles, AC/DC, and, of course, Led Zeppelin. It looks like the home décor section of a Spencer's store, filled with black light posters and lava lamps and psychedelic colors.

Yeah, Saul was definitely a pot-head in his youth, which amuses Jesse to no end.

"I thought you were more of an eighties guy though." Jesse turns in the seat so he's facing Saul. "How come you're not all about, like, synth pop and shit?"

"I doubt you like only one type of music. Sure, I love Hall & Oates and Van Halen as much as the next guy, but I got a special place in my heart for classic rock." His brows knit together. "That doesn't make me too much of an old fogey, does it?"

"Maybe just a little," Jesse teases. He leans across the seat and says, "I had fun today. Thanks." He can still taste sugar on his tongue from the cotton candy.

"No problem. You deserve it." Saul moves in to kiss him, and Jesse responds with eager lips, his hands knotting in Saul's hair as he crushes their mouths closer.

Saul's licking his way into Jesse's mouth when a pair of headlights cruises past them. Jesse breaks away to watch as the truck pulls into the driveway of Buck and Billy Ray's house. Sure, they're Jesse's friends, but he doesn't think they're totally comfortable with dudes making out.

He glances at Saul. "Inside?"

"Sure."

Jesse shuts off the car and steps out. They're walking to the front door just as Buck and Billy Ray notice them. "Where you fellas been all day?" Buck asks, moving along the sidewalk.

"Oh, uh, we took the car out. I got it fixed up last night, and Saul wanted to see how it runs, so..." Jesse shrugs into silence and stuffs his hands into his jacket pockets. His pulse trips madly under his skin.

Buck looks amused. "Really? Y'all go down to Lover's Lane and neck for a bit?"

Jesse's mouth drops open. "What?"

"Either that or you got a big ol' 'skeeter bite there." Buck points to Jesse's throat, and, oh my God, Jesse's actually going to shrivel up and die of embarrassment right here.

Jesse slaps a hand over his neck as his face heats up. "Yeah, man, those—those things are huge."

Saul touches the small of Jesse's back, making him jump. "Aw, c'mon, kid, give credit where credit's due." Jesse chokes as Saul gets his arm around Jesse's waist and pulls him in close. "He's so shy. It's adorable."

Jesse glances away, chews his lip and stares at the toes of his shoes. He wants nothing more than to curl up into a ball and fly into the sun. He hasn't felt this humilated in years.

"'Bout time," Billy Ray mutters loud enough for them to hear.

"I told you," Buck brags to Saul. "Didn't I tell you?"

"Yeah, you told me. Don't be smug about it."

What the hell are they talking about?

Billy Ray smirks, but there's no cruelty there, just amusement. "So y'all were on a date, huh?"

Saul checks his watch. "I think we still are, so if you'll excuse us..."

The two of them back off. "Oh, of course, no problem. Enjoy your evening, fellas." They move to head inside their junky old house, but Jesse's not just going to let this go.

"Yo, hold up. You guys are cool with this?" he asks, his voice a little shaky.

Dealing with backwoods homophobes is a soft pillow in the face of enduring the torture Jack's gang put him through. But that doesn't stop the panic from traveling through his veins.

Buck looks shocked by Jesse's disbelief. "Why not?"

"'Cause you're, y'know, country folk..." Jesse winces at how awful that sounds out loud. "Obviously not everybody's cool with dudes datin' each other, or there wouldn't be such a big bitchfest when they wanna get married."

Buck spreads his hands. "I've always judged people by what they do, not _who_ they do."

"He's a real humanitarian," Saul adds.

Jesse opens his mouth, closes it. Words have failed him here. Because it's all just too perfect: he falls in love with the one person left in his Heisenberg-tainted world, and their redneck neighbors don't even care—hell, they encourage it, even. Hollywood would reject a screenplay of his life for being too unbelievable.

"So you're not offended or anything?" Jesse asks.

"Just a little offended it took you so long," Billy Ray says with humor. "But I guess I can't fault ya for that. Saul's s'posed to be the casanova here."

"It's tragic when people don't adhere to stereotypes," Saul says, shaking his head. He laces a hand with Jesse's. "C'mon, kid. We still got a couple hours to go. I wanna make the best of 'em." He looks at Buck and Billy Ray. "See you later."

"Yeah, peace," Jesse calls over his shoulder as he follows Saul to the door.

"What did Buck tell you that he's bein' smug about?" Jesse asks once they get inside.

"He might've shared a theory with me," Saul says, being evasive.

Jesse links his arms around Saul's torso. "About what?"

Saul glances away for the briefest moment. "You havin' a crush on me."

"And you didn't believe him?"

Saul chuckles nervously. "Of course not. I mean, it's ridiculous, right? You and me. Me and you. It just—it doesn't make a lot of sense, is all."

Is Saul breaking up with him already? Did Jesse screw this up in record time? "No, dude, it makes total sense. All that stuff you were sayin' about how me comin' here was a blessing in disguise? You're totally right. The things we've survived...it changes you. I don't know if we could ever find somebody else that would understand."

Saul watches him with intense eyes; Jesse goes a little breathless under the gaze.

"You're the first glimpse of heaven I've seen in years." His hands tighten in Saul's t-shirt. "So what if this doesn't make sense? Whatever we got between us, I know you feel it too."

"Oh, I'm—I'm definitely feelin' something," Saul says, glancing down where Jesse's pressed against him.

Jesse bites back amusement. "Anybody who can make me laugh the way you do could never be wrong for me."

"You sure you're not laughing _at_ me?"

"Yeah, you're kind of a dork sometimes, but that's what I like about you. You don't try to be cool; you just do your thing, and if people don't like it, fuck 'em."

"Is this your subtle way of telling me I'm not cool?"

Jesse gives him a warm, teasing look. "You have a lava lamp in your bedroom, dude."

"You say that like it's a bad thing, but you're still dating me," Saul reminds him.

"Yeah, well, maybe I got a soft spot for dorky older guys."

"Lucky me."

* * *

Something loud and obnoxious wakes Jesse up in the middle of the night. He groans and nudges Saul, assuming the source of the sound is Saul snoring ridiculously loud. But no, Jesse can still hear it, and it's not snoring. It's music.

Goddamn it.

Saul warned him about this, hadn't he? Jesse hadn't believed him at the time, and he never heard Buck and Billy Ray playing music in the middle of the nights he was trapped in his own head. So of course they'd start jamming out when Jesse can actually sleep without waking up screaming. _Of course_.

He sighs in frustration and cuddles up to Saul again. Maybe he can learn to ignore it, or dream he's in a club that's playing Rush for some reason. Whatever. It doesn't have to make sense.

Saul barely stirs. It's almost like he doesn't even hear it. Or maybe this happens a lot and he's just used to it by now. Jesus.

Jesse grunts, rolling onto his back and staring up at the ceiling. It's not like the music sucks, but even his favorite songs would be obnoxious as fuck in the wee hours of the morning when he's trying to sleep.

Christ, he's actually going to do it. He's actually going to go next door and bitch about turning the music down. Jesse has finally become an old person.

He scrubs a hand over his head and kicks his way free of the blankets. He doesn't bother throwing on shoes or a jacket; he won't be out there that long anyway. When he steps outside, the October air is crisp and cold against his skin. He speed-walks over the concrete, crunching leaves under his feet.

Jesse glances inside the conveniently open living room window. Bark Lee's lying on the couch with his head on his front paws. Buck and Billy Ray sit at the kitchen table playing cards. Jesse leans inside the window and shouts, "Yo!"

Bark Lee lifts his head. When he sees Jesse, he hops off of the couch and scampers to the window. Jesse reaches down to scratch him behind the ears. "Hey buddy."

"Aaron!" Buck greets him as he turns the music down. "You need somethin'?"

"Yeah, actually. You know people are tryin' to sleep, right?" Are the neighbors just as blasé about this as Saul? "Maybe you could, y'know, not play your music super loud at, like, whatever-the-fuck o'clock in the morning?"

"Did we wake ya?"

Jesse just glares. He's amazed the whole block isn't standing here with him. Ridiculous.

"Well, since you're up already, why don't you come on in?"

Jesse figures there's no harm in it, though he's still suspicious this is some sort of trick to get him inside. But whatever. Buck lets him in through the front door. Bark Lee's wagging his tail, watching Jesse make his way inside.

"We were just playing a couple rounds of poker. Care to join us?"

Jesse shakes his head. "Nah, that's cool. I was just, y'know, tryin' to sleep."

"Saul in there?"

"Yeah. But he's...deaf, I guess."

Billy Ray chuckles. "Didn't used to be."

That's comforting.

Billy Ray reaches into a cooler at his feet and pulls out a beer bottle that's sweaty with condensation. "Thirsty?"

Jesse doesn't want to be rude, so he wordlessly accepts the drink. Maybe it'll make him tired enough to sleep through the noise when they inevitably crank the music back up.

He sits in an empty chair at the table. The music playing in the background changes, and it's actually _not_ a Rush song. Shock and surprise.

"So, you and Saul, huh?" Buck asks with an amused smirk.

"He told me you said somethin' to him about me."

"We might'a mentioned you were a little hot for teacher," Billy Ray says.

Jesse fights the wince that tries to form on his face at the phrasing. Because it wouldn't be the first time he had a life-ruining crush on a teacher. "You could tell?"

Buck snorts. "I'm amazed he couldn't! He's usually real perceptive."

Jesse feels his face go hot. So his crush was only obvious to everyone. No big deal or anything.

"Thought I'd accelerate the process, is all, on account of you bein' so shy."

Should he thank them? He's not sure what the protocol is here. Jesse twists open his beer bottle.

"You boys seem awful close for an ex-student and teacher," Buck says, like he's going somewhere with that.

Jesse rolls the bottle cap between his thumb and forefinger. "He, uh, he helped me out a lot back in the day. Like, y'know, a mentor or whatever." He bites his lips together. This whole cover story makes no sense. Even when he replaces Saul with Mr. White, there's still a shitload of holes, gaps in the reason they came together the way they did.

Nothing brings people together like a dark, horrible secret.

"He actually... He helped me work through some—some problems..." Jesse adds, because that makes more sense, right?

Buck reads loud and clear what Jesse's hinting at. "You get in with a bad crowd?"

"You could, uh, you could say that..." The back of his neck breaks out in a sweat. He takes a sip of beer to calm his nerves.

"Guess you owe him a lot, huh?"

Jesse blanches at the insinuation, that the fluttery twist in his gut when he looks at Saul is no more than the reminder of a debt to be paid. "It's not like that, dude. He's a great guy. And he ain't my teacher anymore."

"Didn't mean it that way, kid. You two seem happier than a sow in slop."

Jesse squints, because _what_? "Yeah, it's pretty great. I mean, it's kinda weird, but I can get used to weird." He takes another drink. It's odd how at ease he feels with these two. Or maybe it's just the booze loosening his inhibitions.

Billy Ray deals out a new hand of cards. "Y'all doin' anything for Halloween?"

Jesse shrugs. He hasn't given it much thought.

"I'm only askin' 'cause we'll be outta town, and we need somebody to watch the pup." Bark Lee trots up to the table as if on cue.

Jesse can't say no to that adorable puppy face. "Sure, I guess. I don't think we're doin' anything special. I'll make sure though." He rubs Bark Lee's head and asks, "How come you can't take him with you?"

"Poor feller gets carsick."

Bark Lee's ears droop like he's embarrassed about that.

"You do, huh?" Jesse asks the dog, petting him behind the ears. "Well, you can chill with us then. But no chocolate, alright?"

The dog might actually smile at him.

* * *

Saul comes home from work on Halloween to see the front yard decorated in playful, spooky décor. Plastic pumpkins with faces drawn on sit near the front door. A sheet ghost hangs from a nearby tree. Static clings of skeletons and witches and bats cover the living room window.

Is there a lawn-decorating contest going on that Saul's not aware of?

Inside the house is better, or worse, depending on how you look at it. Jesse and Bark Lee lounge together on the couch, watching a movie. A giant bowl of candy sits in the middle of the coffee table. Jesse's got the dog dressed up in a ridiculous costume that makes him look like a pumpkin. What's worse is Bark Lee doesn't even look ashamed to be wearing clothes. Most animals have a look of resigned indignation when they're forced to dress up, but not Bark Lee. He seems to enjoy being treated like a miniature, four-legged person.

"What have you done?" Saul asks, because that's a pretty appropriate question.

Jesse grins at him. "It's Halloween, yo. Get into the spirit of things."

Saul's not going to act like this isn't cute as hell. Even after everything he's been through, Jesse's still innocent enough to enjoy a holiday to its fullest. "You look like you got enough holiday cheer for the both of us." Saul heads for the stairs. "Have you been watching horror movies all day?"

"I'm sorry, is there something else you're s'posed to do on Halloween? You can't just _not_ watch _Army of Darkness_ when it's on."

That's a solid point.

Saul hurries through a shower so he can partake in movie-viewing with Jesse. By the time he gets downstairs, freshly-scrubbed in an old t-shirt and lounge pants, Jesse's catching Bark Lee up on the lore of _Evil Dead_. "So this dude's life sucks a big one, 'cause he went to this cabin in the woods with his homies and some crazy shit happened and they all died, 'cept for him. So now he's been transported to the past or some shit and he's gotta kill all these skeleton warrior dudes so he can go home."

"Spoilers!" Saul whines, dropping into the empty space beside Jesse.

Jesse gives him a sour look. "Dude, you've never seen _Evil Dead_?"

"I have, but he probably hasn't." Saul lays a hand over the dog's back and rubs his spine. He glances at the bowl on the table overflowing with sugary treats. "You expecting a lot of kids coming by?"

"Kids? Nah, this is for me," Jesse says with a straight face. Then a grin spreads on his lips, and it's one of the most beautiful things Saul's ever seen. "I'm just fuckin' with you, of course it's for the trick-or-treaters." Saul drapes his arm over the back of the couch, lets his hand dangle near Jesse's shoulder. "I made that mistake once. Never again."

"How old were you?" Saul has a feeling this was an embarrassingly recent occurrence.

"Old enough to know eatin' a big-ass bag of candy would fuck me up."

Saul huffs a laugh and lays his hand on Jesse's shoulder. Jesse cuddles closer as Bark Lee rests his head on Jesse's lap. It's adorably picturesque, in a sickeningly-sweet sort of way.

They spend the evening on the couch watching movies, then, when the flicks get "hella lame"—as Jesse called it—Saul grabs his phone and finds creepy stories that make Jesse laugh and squirm and clutch onto him in terror. Occasionally the doorbell rings, and Jesse rushes to answer with the bowl of treats, doling out candy to costumed trick-or-treaters.

Saul thinks he could totally get used to this kind of life, just himself and Jesse and maybe a dog of their own.

It's sure as hell not what Saul pictured all those months ago when he arrived here alone and detached from all the things and people that made him Saul Goodman. He'd figured a fresh start would help, though Nebraska wasn't on the top of his must-see list. If he'd had a choice, he'd be in California shmoozing with models and movie stars. But deep down he knows that wouldn't make him happy. He's shit at knowing what's good for him, as his three failed marriages have certainly demonstrated.

But this... This feels like something that could last and make his house a home filled with love and laughter.

It's about damn time, Saul thinks.

Later in the evening, after the flow of visitors has ebbed and the TV's shut off, Jesse leans against Saul's shoulder, calm and content. Bark Lee's snoozing in the recliner next to the couch. Saul slides a hand along the length of Jesse's arm. Jesse catches Saul's hand as it travels down his own and moves in to kiss his mouth. Jesse tastes like smooth sugar, and Saul wants to drink him down. Jesse shifts and lays his free hand on Saul's shoulder, moving so his knees straddle Saul's hips. Saul makes a gasping sound around the kiss, but he's not going to stop Jesse just yet. He wants to see how far this goes.

Jesse's mouth travels over Saul's jaw line, sucking bruises into the skin. Saul might moan a little, maybe that's something he does. Jesse smiles against his skin and lets his hand drift lower, fanning over Saul's chest. Jesse kisses like it's going somewhere, his hands eager and nimble as they travel downward. He's kissing Saul's mouth, lazy and languid, when he eases his fingers into the flap of Saul's pants.

Saul jumps at the touch, because Jesse's hands have never been this close to his cock before. His heart thumps in his chest, and Saul awaits Jesse's next move. Jesse tugs him out of his shorts and, oh my God, he's rubbing his thumb along the underside of Saul's dick, which isn't making it difficult to form words _at all_. Saul whimpers out something embarrassing when Jesse tweaks the head of his dick with his thumb.

Saul's totally fine with a handjob, really. Jesse's hands are new to his genitals, so he's interested in how they might feel around his dick, stroking and sliding. But Jesse seems to want something more, because he's kneeling at Saul's feet, and, _oh fuck oh fuck_, that's his _mouth_.

Saul sucks in a breath and rolls his hips into the warmth of Jesse's wet, eager mouth. Jesse makes a humming sound that Saul feels in his bones. Jesus, that's good. Jesse sucks cock like a true novice, sloppy and unpracticed, but it's so good and Saul can't focus on anything but this.

It's wrong, he knows, because Jesse's never made any sort of sexual advances on him, but now he's totally cool with blowing Saul? Nah, Saul's smart enough to see there's something else going on here, and as much as it pains him he has to stop.

"Jess..." Saul groans and pushes a hand over Jesse's prickly scalp, gently easing his head away. "I can't..."

There's a smear of pre-cum at the corner of Jesse's mouth. God fucking damn. "What, are you the one dude on the planet who doesn't like getting head?"

"N—no, that's not..." Saul tucks himself back into his pants, because, yeah, it's kind of hard to think when he's just...out there. "I don't know what happened to you, but this isn't something you have to do for me. You don't have any obligation to me—"

"You think I'm doin' this because of some shit that happened to me in there?"

Christ, it sounds fucking horrible said out loud. Saul keeps his mouth shut. He can't tell if Jesse is shocked, furious, or devastated. Maybe all three.

Jesse towers over him, fists clenched and shaking. "Like it wasn't bad enough that they beat the shit out of me, kept me a goddamn prisoner, and fucked up my face? No, they had to rape me too? What the fuck?"

Saul doesn't have an answer for that. Words have failed him tremendously tonight.

"Maybe I wanted to make you feel good 'cause I like you!" Jesse snaps, his blue eyes stormy with rage.

His knee-jerk defensive anger isn't particularly convincing Saul of Jesse's argument. Rather, it's sort of reinforcing Saul's original hypothesis, and, yes, he does feel immeasurably shitty about that, but how else is he supposed to take this? Why else would Jesse be so appalled at Saul's concern for him?

"Jesse, I'm sorry. I was just—" Saul can't think of an explanation that makes this okay. "It just seemed like you had more practice than you ought to... I mean, you skipped right past the handjobs, and suddenly you got my dick in your mouth. You can see how that might confuse a guy, right? Since you did say you were new to this whole dating-a-dude thing."

Saul's explanation doesn't ease the offense on Jesse's face. So maybe nothing happened in the compound. "Was it Walt?" Saul asks, because he's an idiot. "Did you two have some sort of _arrangement_ going on? 'You scratch my back, I'll scratch yours'? That kind of thing?"

Saul really needs to just stop talking, because every word digs him a deeper grave. It's déjà vu in every way, except instead of a gun Jesse's armed with furious blue eyes and the ability to crush Saul's heart in his hand like a dried-up bird's nest. Saul kind of misses the days when the worst thing Jesse could do was shoot him.

"Are you fucking—What—I—" Jesse sputters out. "Are you seriously upset because you think your dick isn't the first one I've had in my mouth? Is that what this is?"

"What? No! Jesse, I—"

But Jesse doesn't let him finish. He storms off, growls, "You're such a fucking idiot," before disappearing up the staircase. Saul tries to form an apology, but it gets caught in his throat.

Saul is the absolute worst. He's firing everyone in charge of his life forever.

Bark Lee raises his eyes and stares at Saul as if to say, "Nice negotiating, dumbass." Saul frowns at him. "Don't judge me."

Bark Lee whimpers and settles his head on his front paws, gazing off sadly like Saul's the cause of all his misery.

Saul doesn't go after Jesse, because he figures letting the kid sleep on this ought to do him some good. Maybe he'll realize Saul only had the best intentions behind his colossally stupid behavior. Yes, Saul's well aware of the old adage about good intentions, but this relationship with Jesse is like navigating a minefield. He doesn't know what's rigged to blow, so inevitably he fucks up and triggers a landmine.

Why is Saul not even the least bit surprised that he managed to screw up the best relationship he's ever had?


	8. Nobody's Fault But Mine

(this story has a fanmix! :) you can find it under my 8tracks username sodium-amytal, or under my fanmix tag on my tumblr: saulpinkmans)

* * *

Jesse won't admit he misses Saul's presence in his bed, even when the nightmares rear up and destroy his calm. He'd almost forgotten how vivid and awful they are, how they leave his scars throbbing in remembrance.

Jesse's had a lot of practice being angry at Saul, but it's different this time, because they're not just lawyer and client anymore. They're connected now by this tenuous string of mutual attraction and understanding, so Saul's ignorant accusations cut deeper than they would have before. He's not sure what he's more offended by: the fact that Saul assumes he was sexually abused because Jesse wanted to blow him, or the idea that Jesse only wanted to suck dick _because_ of said abuse.

He huffs out an angry sigh and stares at the curtains billowing in the soft breeze from the A/C. Jesse's never realized how Saul keeps the nightmares away until he's not there anymore. The way Saul curls his arms around Jesse's tiny frame, the scent of him on the pillows, the heat of his body, the way he wakes up and calls Jesse "Pretty Boy"—Jesse'd miss it all if it was no longer there.

He swallows his pride and climbs out of bed. He makes his way down the hall to Saul's bedroom. The door is open, as if inviting Jesse in to make peace. Saul's lying in the bed, turned over so Jesse can't see his face, just the Pink Floyd blanket he's wrapped in. Bark Lee's curled up at the foot of the bed in the empty space that once belonged to Jesse. It's adorable in a gutting sort of way; Bark Lee must have sensed Saul's heartbreak and offered the only comfort he could.

Jesse pads inside on silent feet and swallows thickly before whispering, "Yo," into the stillness.

Bark Lee's ears tilt in the direction of Jesse's voice.

"You're not pissed at me, are you?" Jesse waits for an answer that doesn't come. "I really hope you're not pissed. 'Cause I wanna talk about this. I want us to be good again."

Bark Lee pushes up on all fours and moves over to Saul, nudges Saul's face with his snout. Saul stirs, mumbles, "Jesse, what're you doin'?" before he sees Bark Lee there. "What'd'you want?"

"Sorry," Jesse murmurs. "I wanted to talk to you."

Saul rolls over to look at Jesse. "Hey, what's wrong?"

"Nothin'. I just wanted to apologize."

"For what?" Saul rubs his eyes.

Jesse takes a couple tentative steps toward the bed, like he's not sure if he's still allowed here anymore after a fight. "For yellin' at you."

"In all fairness, I think I deserved it."

"No, you didn't. You had no way of knowin' 'cause I've never talked about what happened." He shrugs. "I didn't think I needed to."

Saul watches Jesse standing there at the foot of the bed. He stretches his arms out, gives him permission to join him there. "C'mere. This is your bed too, y'know."

"Seriously?"

"Of course," Saul says, like there was never any other answer.

Jesse crawls into the bed, nudging Bark Lee aside so he can cuddle up to Saul. Bark Lee huffs exasperation and goes back to sleep. Saul holds Jesse close, one arm linked around his waist. "You just surprised me, is all. I figured if you ever tried something it'd be a handjob, because you're new to this."

"Yeah, I guess I was kinda forward."

"Just a bit." Saul smiles, and it's all love and forgiveness.

"I thought you'd be into that."

"I was, and I am, but... I wanna know you're doin' it for the right reasons."

"Is there a better reason than wantin' to make my boyfriend come?"

Saul blinks like he's stunned. "No, that's—that's pretty good." It takes him a moment to shake off the mental image. "Maybe I was a touch insensitive earlier, but you should open up and work through this stuff. I'm all ears if you wanna talk about it—or not, of course. But I don't know how to do this if I'm constantly afraid I'll say something that reminds you of something horrible. You gotta let me know about the crap in the road so I can avoid it, y'know?"

Jesse sighs. "Would you believe me if I said nothin' like that happened?"

Saul looks into Jesse's eyes for a long handful of seconds. Jesse wonders what he sees there. "Yeah, I guess I do. I just—" He glances off, tries again. "Why'd you get so upset about it if it didn't happen?"

"You know that's not the only bad thing that can happen to somebody, right? Gettin' beat, bein' chained up and starved... There's a reason it's called torture."

Saul's whole face winces, and it's painful to watch. But Saul said he wanted to know, so Jesse doesn't feel too bad about it.

"That stuff can leave just as many scars." Jesse thinks for a moment. "So I guess I got mad 'cause it felt like you were sayin' what I went through didn't matter 'cause it wasn't _that_. And you acted like goin' down on you wasn't something I'd wanna do unless I was forced into sex slavery or somethin'." Saul should understand him a bit better now. This is the most Jesse's ever talked about his experiences in the compound; he doesn't want to be treated like he's made of brittle sticks because of it.

Saul half-smiles. "Guess I should take a sensitivity seminar then, huh?"

"Yeah, maybe," Jesse says around a soft chuckle.

"I'm sorry, kid. I was just tryin' to protect you."

Jesse curls a hand around Saul's hip. "From what? Orgasms? For real, how bomb _is_ your dick?"

Saul huffs amusement. "I've been married enough times to know it's pretty good. It has to be, right? It's not like they were in it for my good looks or prestigious career." He breathes out a soft sound that Jesse recognizes as Saul's self-deprecating laugh.

Jesse just shakes his head, pushes his hand underneath Saul's t-shirt and skims over the line of his body. "Stop it, you're awesome." Saul doesn't argue with that, though he looks like he wants to. "But, yo, I'm not as broken as you think I am. If you do somethin' I don't like, maybe it'll affect me, maybe not, but if it does, y'know, we can just talk about it like we're doin' now. But I want you to try with me. You gotta take chances sometimes or good things never happen." Saul's watching him intently, as if every word out of Jesse's mouth is gospel. "I trust you, like, completely, okay? I lo—" It tumbles off his tongue like a verbal train wreck, and Jesse barely catches it before it's out there. He breaks their gaze, feeling his heart pounding against his ribcage. "Just—yeah, you don't have to tiptoe around me like I'm made of glass. I'm fine."

Maybe Saul didn't hear that. He could be overwhelmed with Jesse's emotional onslaught that he missed the near-confession Jesse's really, really hoping went unnoticed. Because that's not the kind of thing you just blurt out.

Saul's eyes widen, his lips parting slightly. "Whoa, you love me? Is that—were you gonna say you love me?"

Fuck, he heard it. The verbal train wreck claims another victim. Jesse scoffs a shaky sound of feigned disbelief. "What? No way. C'mon, that's— Don't be ridiculous. I was gonna say 'I love how much you worry about me, but you don't have to,'" he stammers out.

But Saul's grinning like the goddamn Cheshire cat. "You totally love me."

"Shut up," Jesse grumbles, burying his face in Saul's chest. "No, I don't."

Saul's hand slides over Jesse's back, and Jesse can feel the heat of his breath ghosting over his head. "Maybe I love you too, kid. That's why I don't want to screw this up."

"You love me?"

"I said 'maybe,'" Saul says, but he smiles like he means it.

Jesse doesn't know how to handle the fact that Saul's seen him at his worst so many times, seen the scars on his face, and fallen in love with him regardless.

"So, yeah, I'm afraid of messing this up," Saul's saying, totally oblivious that he's blown Jesse's mind. "I mean, how many other relationships have I bombed by saying or doing the wrong thing? I can't afford to wreck this one too."

Jesse meets his eyes, finally finding his voice. "You're the best thing that's ever happened to me. There's no way you could fuck this up."

"Kinda feels like I have."

"Whatever, that's nothing. It's all good, man." He snorts a laugh after a beat. "Oh my God, I just now got that!"

Saul smiles back and covers Jesse's mouth with his own.

* * *

In the morning, Jesse's got his face smushed against Saul's chest, one arm looped around him as he sleeps. Bark Lee surrendered the bed at some point during the night, so Jesse's legs are stretched out in the space where the pup once was.

Saul nuzzles the fuzz of Jesse's hair and breathes out a contented sigh. He's so glad last night wasn't a disastrous fault line in their relationship, instead a mere bump in the road. Talking to Jesse about his fears is something he can do, something that won't be met with eye-rolling or dismissive answers. He doesn't have to tiptoe around anything, because Jesse is resilient as hell. Nothing like the fragile boy who'd come into Saul's office with tragic, weary-worn eyes and bruises all over his face.

Saul is so fucking proud of him.

Jesse stirs awake, the fingers of his tattooed hand coming to life around a fistful of Saul's t-shirt. He groans low in his throat and blinks his eyes open.

"Mornin', Pretty Boy." Jesse makes a happy sound and hides his face in Saul's chest. Saul snuggles him closer, kisses the top of his head. "You sleep okay?"

"I'unno, did you?" There's a coy little smile at the corner of Jesse's mouth, and Saul has to cover it with his lips. Jesse grins wider around the kiss, pushing his hand underneath Saul's shirt. The warmth from Jesse's hand makes his skin jump a little. He's still not used to Jesse touching him, and he doesn't think he ever will be.

"I slept fine," Saul says. "It's not every morning I wake up with your gorgeous face beside me."

Jesse laughs at that, like it's a joke, but his shy little smile says he knows Saul means every word of it. "Yeah, maybe I like seein' your dumb face every mornin' too."

"I call you gorgeous, and I get 'dumb' in return?" Saul jokes, because being a snarky pain-in-the-ass is how Jesse flirts. He's been flirting with Saul forever, it seems.

Jesse's still smirking at him. "I didn't say _you_ were dumb. Just your face." Which he then kisses, because Jesse's a sap who can't resist making out. Saul crushes their mouths closer and lets his hand trail down the slope of Jesse's spine. He curves over Jesse's hip, rubs his palm against the swell of his cock. Jesse gasps around Saul's mouth before kissing him harder, appreciative of the touch. Saul rubs him through his shorts, and Jesse squirms and shifts, hips bucking into the heel of Saul's hand.

"Shit," Jesse grunts, nails dragging over Saul's back.

Saul freezes, immediately concerned he's done something wrong. "Is this—this is okay, right?"

Jesse manages a nod as he shoves into Saul's touch and tips his head back. "Totally." His voice is rough and breathy around the word.

Saul moves in to cover the swell of Jesse's Adam's apple with his mouth. He can feel the slight bob of a swallow beneath his tongue, the reverberations in Jesse's vocal cords when he moans low against the air. Jesse throws a leg around Saul's hips, pressing at the small of his back with his heel. Saul dips his tongue into the hollow of Jesse's throat. He wants to see what the rest of Jesse's body looks like, wants to taste it under his tongue. He gets his hands full of the hem of Jesse's t-shirt. He moves like he's going to pull it over Jesse's head. Jesse doesn't stop him, so Saul's going to take that as a yes.

Jesse's torso is magnificent, even more than Saul imagined. He stares at it for a moment or two before deciding the tattoo across his chest is a good place to start. He mouths kisses over the ink, following the design with the tip of his tongue. Jesse breathes hot little noises of want, digs his fingers in Saul's hair. Saul reaches the end of the tattoo, and he's absolutely putting that nipple in his mouth. Jesse makes a gasp-y, shuddery sound that turns Saul on more than it ought to. He takes the nub between his teeth, careful not to bite too hard, just enough to make Jesse's spine arch and his thighs squeeze together. The second nipple is just as sensitive as its partner, and that's when Jesse reaches down to jerk himself off, impatient.

Saul catches his wrist and gently pins his arm against the line of his body. "Don't. I wanna get you off."

A breath ghosts out of Jesse's parted lips, his eyes wide.

"You said you wanted me to try, right?" Saul asks, and Jesse shudders out a shaky sound of approval, fingers tightening in Saul's shirt. He kisses a line down Jesse's stomach, tongue dipping in at his navel for a moment as he edges Jesse's shorts over his hips. "If you change your mind, just say the word, okay?"

Jesse nods wordlessly, watching Saul kiss the jut of his hip bone as he's laid bare. His dick's tight against his belly, and there's a delicious-looking vein along the underside that Saul wants to follow with his tongue. So he does.

Jesse sucks in a breath and shakes under Saul's mouth. Saul chases the vein again, his tongue flat against Jesse's dick. The head of his cock's flushed and leaking pre-cum at the tip. Saul wonders what Jesse tastes like, figures the only way to know is just to go for it. He opens his mouth around the head of Jesse's cock, and Jesse whimpers behind his teeth and shifts his hips. His legs slide in the sheets, hands reaching for Saul's hair. Saul's careful to ease into it, going slowly to keep himself from gagging, because this is new to him, and he wants it to be good for Jesse.

Jesse makes quiet noises of encouragement, his hands tugging and pulling as Saul's mouth works around him. Saul assumed Jesse would be much noisier in bed, and, yeah, that's something he's thought about a lot. But it's still early, and maybe the kid's just shy, so he starts sucking on the head, figures that'll make Jesse a little more vocal.

Jesse bites down around a grateful moan, but it's louder than he's ever been here; Saul can totally work with that. He lets his tongue glide along the shaft while his mouth works, tracing the curves and ridges there. Jesse hooks his legs over Saul's shoulders and rolls his hips. "Fuck..." he pleads around a groan, quaking beneath Saul's lips. Saul thinks he's doing pretty well for his first time, though Jesse seems like he'd appreciate of any sort of mouth-to-dick contact.

Saul can taste the salt-bitter ooze of pre-cum on his tongue, the way Jesse's body responds to him, and he's got no idea why that turns him on so much. Sucking cock was never something Saul gave any thought to before, but now that he's dating Jesse he wants to get immeasurably good at it.

Jesse moans, loud against the silence, fingers going tight in Saul's hair. He raises his hips, and Saul can tell he's close. Jesse makes a fractured, graceless sound of warning, then it all shakes out of him, his hips rocking and shoving into Saul's mouth as his muscles seize and the dam breaks. Saul drinks him down, and he's pretty sure he's got a whole new fetish now because of this relationship.

Jesse's breathing hot and jagged by the time Saul's finished licking him clean, his chest rising and falling in a quest for oxygen. His hands slacken a little in Saul's hair, coming to rest on his shoulders. "God damn..." Jesse breathes out, pure contentment curling around the words.

Saul climbs his way up Jesse's body and plants a kiss on his mouth. Jesse smiles, and Saul feels a hand rubbing at his swollen dick. "You get off on blowin' me?" Jesse asks with a hint of arousal, like the idea of Saul being turned on by giving blowjobs is the hottest thing he's ever heard.

"I think it's the whole making-my-boyfriend-come thing more than the act itself." But, yeah, Saul kind of likes giving head too. "It's about fifty-fifty."

Jesse grins. "Hot." His hand works between Saul's legs, and the added friction from his pants and boxers makes it almost unbearable. Saul bites his lip and pushes into Jesse's hand. "Want me to do you?"

"If—if you want."

Jesse rolls his eyes like Saul's being difficult. "'Course I want to. I think about it a lot, actually." He squints a little as the morning sun creeps in through the curtains. "Is that weird?"

"No, no, that's—that's totally normal. I think. I hope." Saul's never been with another dude before, so he's winging it here.

Jesse pushes his hands over Saul's hips and into his underwear. "So you're not gonna spaz out this time?"

"I did not _spaz out_," Saul mumbles, mildly offended by the insinuation. But semantics hardly matter when Jesse's sliding Saul's boxers over his hips and pushing his back against the mattress.

* * *

Saul and Jesse spend their next mutual day off next door at Buck and Billy Ray's. Jesse's worried that they're giving off some sort of anti-social vibe since they started dating, and he wants to rectify that immediately. Bark Lee's certainly happy to see Jesse, hopping up next to him on the worn-out couch and laying his head in Jesse's lap. Jesse scratches the mutt behind the ears, and after a while the dog starts snoring quietly.

"You got a real knack with him," Billy Ray says to Jesse.

"Saul or the dog?" Jesse asks, because Saul's tucked alongside him with his arm draped over Jesse's shoulders.

"I was talkin' about Bark Lee, but since you mention it..."

Jesse tries to steer the conversation in a direction that won't spark more questions about his manufactured past with Saul. "Where'd you get this little guy anyway?" he asks, rubbing Bark Lee's head. "Kinda a rare breed, huh?"

"Found 'im wanderin' around the garbage dump at my old place," Buck says, snapping open a beer can. Bark Lee's ears twitch and turn in the direction of the sound, but he doesn't wake up. "He was kinda dirty and skinny-lookin', so I took him to the vet to make sure he was all right. Learned these types don't get along too well with other dogs if they're not raised with 'em, so I figured the owners brought him in to a home with another dog and he got a bit aggressive."

Jesse glances down at the sleeping dog and wonders how anyone could abandon an innocent creature.

"So I took 'im home, even put up flyers around the neighborhood in case he really was lost, but nothin' ever came of it," Buck continues. "But if he was somebody's pet, I figure I would'a seen at least one 'lost dog' sign somewhere."

Jesse smiles and rubs behind Bark Lee's ears, happy the pup found a home.

"You ever have a dog?"

Jesse shakes his head. "My parents never let me have one. When they stopped callin' the shots, my house wasn't really suitable for a dog, I guess..." Then again, neither was Jesse.

"Speakin' of parents," Billy Ray says, "you goin' anyplace special for Thanksgiving?"

"That's a hell of a segue," Saul says, casually wrapping his hand around Jesse's shoulder as if sensing the question might prickle a nerve.

Jesse shakes his head. "Nah, I don't think so. The folks and I don't get along too well..."

Billy Ray looks wounded. "I'm sorry to hear that."

"I'm in the same boat as Aaron," Saul says softly, and Jesse thinks he hears a tinge of regret in his voice. "We, uh, we haven't really talked about what we're gonna do for the holidays."

"Y'all should celebrate together," Buck suggests. "You gotta at least be thankful for each other, right?"

Saul and Jesse share a look. Saul's mouth is curved into a small smile that Jesse wants to kiss away, but he's still a little shy about kissing his boyfriend in front of "country folk." So he just says, "Yeah, that'd be dope." Jesse turns his head to Saul. "You wanna do that? Just you and me?"

"And Bark Lee," Buck adds, "on account of his carsickness. Poor feller wouldn't last the drive to Lincoln."

Buck and Billy Ray seem like the type to have huge family get-togethers, so of course they're going to visit family for the holidays. Jesse's glad he won't be alone, but he feels kind of douchey taking any sort of comfort in Saul's lack of family ties. Saul is wonderful and fantastic and deserves all the happiness in the world; it seems unfair that all he has is Jesse.

"Yeah, we can watch him," Jesse volunteers. "It'll be great, won't it, lil' buddy?" He scratches the dog's ears some more until Bark Lee blinks awake with a great big yawn. He rubs a paw over his snout and rises to his feet, hopping off of the couch. His tail wags a mile a minute as he looks expectantly at Jesse.

"You wanna go for a walk?" Bark Lee bounces around like a circus freak on speed. Jesse's going to take that as a yes. "Can I take him out?" Jesse asks Buck, rising from the sagging middle of the couch.

Buck smiles, ever the proud parent. "'Course. He'll show you around if you ain't familiar."

Bark Lee shows Jesse to the table near the door where his leash is, as if Jesse doesn't know by now. He clips the leash to the dog's collar, and Bark Lee's tail picks up velocity.

"Don't take too long, kid," Saul says, fixing him with an open, honest look of adoration that makes Jesse's heart soar and sing. "He's not the only one who's crazy about you."

Jesse rolls his eyes with affection and leans over the arm of the couch to plant a quick kiss on Saul's mouth. "God, you're so needy," he teases as he walks out the front door.

The park isn't too far from their neighborhood, but Bark Lee leads the way in case Jesse's forgotten how to get there. The enclave of trees boasts autumn-hued leaves, and the grass in some spots is weathered over by faded orange, the last hurrahs of fall before winter's arrival. Orange streaks of sunset split through the trees. Jesse loves the atmosphere and solitude here; Bark Lee probably appreciates the lack of other dogs. Most of the inhabitants are joggers or a handful of children decorating the playground; today is no different.

Jesse spends most of his time on his walks letting his mind wander. He thinks about how Saul went from being a sleazy, kind of obnoxious bus-bench lawyer to someone he'd give his life to protect. Jesse's never put much value on his own life, but the sentiment ought to count for something. He thinks about what it might mean that they're spending the holidays together, or if it means anything at all since they have no other choice. Would Saul want to spend Thanksgiving or Christmas with Jesse if going home to visit his family was an option?

Bark Lee focuses his attention on a squirrel hopping across the pathway. He doesn't bark or give chase, just watches like he's equally fascinated by his surroundings as Jesse is.

They walk past park benches and crooked rows of trees. Jesse breathes in the fading aroma of autumn, delights in the crunch of leaves under his shoes. Sometimes he has to remind himself that it's all real. Because Jesse still secretly suspects he died back in the compound and all of this wonderful, incredible life is no more than a dream, some imagined afterlife he's created for himself.

Funny how the mind works.

Up ahead near the end of the trail, Jesse spots a pathway that he's never taken before; he decides to follow it this time and find where it leads. Bark Lee glances at Jesse as if to say, "Where are we going?" but he looks pleased that they're not turning around and heading home yet.

The path is rather scenic, leading them between more trees and past a stretch of nice-looking houses. Then after about five minutes it all turns to shit, as if someone had shoved the seediest part of Albuquerque against an upper-class neighborhood. Billboards advertising cell-phone plans and questionable weight-loss methods stand against the sky. The land is flat and practically barren, save for the buildings lining each side of the four-lane road. None of the businesses appear as if they've seen renovation in the last fifteen years. Everything looks, well, butt-ugly and cheap. For a moment Jesse feels like he's back on the street corners of Albuquerque slinging glass, but the lack of dry, oppressive heat keeps him grounded in reality.

He stays on the sad excuse for a sidewalk, reads the occasional graffiti tags on the concrete. There's a gas station in the distance on the corner with a sign reading "Kum & Go." Incredible. Jesse veers to the right down a side street boasting some trees and actual greenery. There's a run-down building to his right that looks like it used to be a car repair shop; the garage windows are beaten and boarded up, and a "for sale" sign sits in the patch of grass barricading it apart from the next plot of land—another empty, for-sale building. On his left is a structure built out of aluminum siding, and a stretch of alleyway with two teenagers loitering in the dead-end.

Jesse's heading down the street when he hears it: "Psst."

The sound makes him freeze mid-step. Even Bark Lee stops walking.

"Yeah, you. With the dog."

Panic squeezes in his gut. He didn't get a good look at their faces because he didn't recognize them. But what if _they_ recognize _him_? He tries to imagine how these two strangers might know him from his previous life. Nothing rings a bell, but that doesn't mean he's in the clear.

Jesse turns around and faces the two men in the alleyway. They don't look like troublemakers, but Jesse's lived long enough to know about unassuming duos. The shorter of the two—Jesse can see a formidable goatee on the guy's chin—beckons him over with a wave of his hand.

Jesse's first thought, of course, is that they're going to rob him. But these guys would be idiots to try to rob someone with a dog, let alone a dog the size of Bark Lee. He's no Great Dane or Doberman, but he's no toy breed either. Getting a limb or extremity chomped between his jaws would not be a pleasant experience.

Plus, any thief worth his salt would have the good sense to be subtle about it. So Jesse doesn't see much harm in walking into the mouth of the alleyway. Once he does, he gets a better look at the two strangers, and they're too old to be teenagers. College students, maybe? One is a semi-balding white guy with wire-framed glasses and a goatee; the other is a black guy in a bandana with a couple inches on Beardy. He's got thicker, square-framed glasses and a Batman t-shirt.

"What'd'you want?" Jesse asks.

"I think the question is, what do _you_ want?" Beardy says. He sounds like a used-car salesman. He reaches into his pants' pocket, withdraws his hand just enough to flash a small baggie of—oh, _fuck_ no. Blue Sky.

Jesse's throat closes up.

"You look like you know what I'm talkin' about."

Glasses makes an exasperated sound at Beardy. "Dude, _profiling_."

Beardy rolls his eyes.

Jesse moves closer, as if compelled by some unseen force. "Yo, where'd you get that?"

"Don't worry, there's plenty more where that came from," Beardy says. "Of course, it all depends how much you've got."

"Did you cook it?" Holy shit, did he manage to find the guys cooking Blue Sky? What happens now? Should he do some sort of citizen's arrest? Can he even do that? "Where'd you get your recipe?"

Beardy pushes his glasses up. "I'm afraid that's classified information."

Jesse tries another avenue. "Then who's your supplier, huh?"

"I think he's a cop," Glasses whispers. "That dog could be a drug-sniffing dog!"

Bark Lee just tilts his head curiously.

Jesse doesn't appreciate being ignored here. Fear is a pretty good motivator, so Jesse moves closer and snarls, "Yo, you deaf? Tell me where you're gettin' your glass!"

"Not a cop," Beardy says to Glasses, his eyes wide like there might be some worse fate in store for him than being arrested. "So not a cop!"

"Okay, dude, I'm just gonna reach into my pockets and give you the product, and we won't have any problems, alright?" Glasses slowly puts his hands into his jacket pockets, withdraws a red bandana tied into a satchel. With a shaky arm, he offers it to Jesse. Jesse just stares at it like it's something left unflushed in a toilet.

"Don't like being handed things? That's cool, Tony Stark, we can play it that way." Glasses drops the satchel onto the ground at Jesse's feet and side-steps away. "Nice doin' business with you."

Beardy glares at his partner, who's currently fleeing the scene. "_Really_?" He huffs exasperation, mutters, "Jesus fucking Christ," under his breath and runs after Glasses. He tosses a glance over his shoulder to see if Jesse gives chase before disappearing behind the building facing the street.

But Jesse doesn't give a shit about two dumber-than-dirt dealers, because there's a bag of Blue Sky at his feet. Bark Lee sniffs at it for a moment. Jesse reaches down and picks up the bag. He unties the knot at the top. The bandana falls open to reveal five little baggies filled with tiny blue crystals.

His breath catches in his throat. The faint temptation to smoke it scratches at the back of his brain before Jesse clamps down on the urge. There are more pressing matters at hand now, like what the fuck should he do with this? Bring it to the police? And, what, say some drug dealers just gave it to him? Yeah, that's about as plausible as an Elvis sighting.

Maybe he could leave it somewhere innocuous and call in an anonymous tip. Leave it for the cops to find. He doesn't need to be a hero by putting his own ass on the line. It's not a bad idea, really. He could just drop the bag behind the aluminum-sided building that doesn't look like it's been open for business in ages. No one would find the drugs—not for a while, at least—and maybe the dealers would return and take their product back. It's not the best option, since Jesse feels twenty different kinds of wrong about his recipe being back on the streets, but he doesn't need to get entangled in this kind of shit again.

This would be an awesome plan if the cops didn't show up first.

A police car sneaks up from behind, its lights flashing wildly, and blocks him into the alley. Jesse's jaw drops. No fucking way. Did those guys actually narc on him! Impossible. He isn't sure how much time passed while he was wordlessly staring at the bag, but there couldn't have been enough time to place a call and have the cops arrive. He didn't even hear any sirens.

Although if those dudes really did sic the police on Jesse for "stealing" their meth, they're the stupidest fucking drug dealers on the planet. He hopes they step on all of the world's Legos.

Jesse quickly surveys his options, of which he really only has a grand total of one. Running from the police would be idiocy. The only feasible way out would be to play Frogger across four lanes of busy traffic. And then what? This is totally alien territory for him; he doesn't have a homefield advantage here.

Trapped.

A uniformed officer climbs out of the car, one hand on the gun holstered at his hip. Immediately, his gaze settles on Bark Lee, who doesn't seem at all distressed or concerned that his sort-of owner is being arrested.

"That your dog?" the cop asks.

Jesse manages to speak. "Uh, n—no, he's my neighbors'. I'm just walkin' him." Did he really just use the "it's not mine; I'm just holding it for a friend" excuse on a fucking dog? Shit, is he going to be arrested for possession _and_ dognapping? This is the lamest rap sheet ever.

"Neighbors, huh?" The officer moves closer and takes the incriminating evidence out of Jesse's hands. He lets out a low whistle. "That's some pretty mad volume you got here." Jesse rolls his eyes. "How much this cost you?"

Jesse glares at the concrete like he blames it for everything. "They just gave it to me," he mumbles. No one will ever believe him. His life sucks.

The policeman—his shiny nameplate reads "Gilligan"—actually fucking _laughs_ at him. "You must be pretty important then. You got ID?"

Jesse nods, then the cop's sticking his hands into Jesse's jeans' pockets. "Yo, buy me dinner first." Jesse's never met a cop who wasn't homophobic; gay humor gets them every time.

But Gilligan doesn't seem fazed by Jesse's joke. "A comedian, huh?" He flips open Jesse's wallet and looks at his license. Jesse's so fucking glad he got a Nebraska ID a little while after moving here; using his Alaska license would be a death sentence right now. Gilligan lifts his gaze from the ID to Jesse, like the pictures don't match and he's trying to figure out if the wool's being pulled over his eyes. Then he looks at Bark Lee again before sticking the wallet into Jesse's pocket.

"Are you gonna make me handcuff you, or will you just get in the car?"

Jesse gets in the car. Bark Lee hops in the seat next to him, and Jesse's half fucking terrified the cop might shove him out and leave the pup for Animal Control. But the three of them ride to the police station together. This is the least aggressive arrest Jesse's ever been involved in.

But his heart feels like a bird banging against his rib cage. He can't be arrested. Not now, not after everything in his life has fit into its own perfect place. Because Jesse's been arrested before, and he knows they're going to fingerprint him and run those prints against the national database. And when they do...

Fear wraps around his chest in tight steel bands. Bark Lee, as if sensing Jesse's impending panic, whines and nudges his snout against Jesse's face.

As they're rolling into the driveway of the police station, Jesse asks in a shaky voice, "Yo, can I call my lawyer?"

* * *

"How the hell you gonna put Zeppelin higher than Skynyrd?" Billy Ray argues, like the mere idea is sacreligious.

Saul makes a face. "I'm offended you're even asking me that question. And you put Rush on the top of your list. I mean, I don't even think we can be friends anymore."

Buck shakes his head. "I warned you."

"Zeppelin don't have any party songs," Billy Ray says, ignoring Buck's smug reminder. "But you put on 'Sweet Home Alabama' or 'Poison Whiskey' or 'Down South Jukin'' and see if that don't get things jumpin'."

"'Led Zeppelin has no party songs,' says the person who's never listened to an actual Led Zeppelin album. And, hey, Rush only has, what, five songs that even matter? The rest are just album filler."

Billy Ray straightens up and glares at Saul. "Them's fightin' words."

They're moments away from a tense stare-off when Saul's phone rings. "Saved by the bell...er, ringtone." Saul pushes away from the table and digs his phone out of his pocket. The number on the caller ID isn't familiar, but that doesn't raise red flags on its own. Jesse's cell could have died, and maybe he's using a pay phone. He's been gone for a while anyway; he probably got lost on his walk and needs directions. So Saul doesn't think anything's amiss when he answers it. "Hello?"

Jesse's voice is a panicked whisper on the other end. "Saul, you gotta help me."

Saul immediately assumes the worst. Adrenaline gushes through his veins as his mind floods with all the awful, horrifying reasons Jesse might need his help. "What's wrong, kid? You hurt?" Billy Ray and Buck rise from their seats, but Saul motions for them to stay put.

"No, I just—" Jesse grunts like he can't find the proper words. "I need your help. They're never gonna believe me, it was a total coincidence, I swear to God—"

"Hey, hey, c'mon, just tell me where you are and I'll come get you."

There's a pause on Jesse's end, then he murmurs, "I'm in jail."

Horror seizes in his chest. "What? Why?" Saul knows it's shitty, but his first thought is that Jesse's done something terrible.

"It's a huge misunderstanding! They caught me—allegedly—with crystal, but—"

The words knock the air out of him. "Whoa, whoa, kid, you're not—" Saul moves into another room to give himself some privacy; Buck and Billy Ray don't need to overhear this. "You're not getting back into that stuff, are you?"

Jesse sighs like they've had this conversation over and over and Saul's gotten it wrong every time. "No, I told you, it was—"

"Yeah, a misunderstanding. How many times have I heard that one before?"

Jesse whimpers a sound of pure heartbreak, and Saul immediately regrets his words.

"Hey, I'm sorry. I didn't—" He stops himself from going down that road.

"Baby, please, you have to help me. They took my prints! They're gonna find out, and I can't—" Jesse's voice breaks, and he sniffles. "You have to help me."

His fingerprints... Oh Christ. Saul shuts his eyes in pain as nausea rocks his stomach. "Tell me what you need from me and it's yours."

"I need you to be my lawyer. And maybe some bail money, I don't know."

"I haven't been in the game in over half a year. I'm rusty."

"I don't care. I trust you, remember?"

Saul smiles despite himself. "I do. Just hang in there and exercise your right to remain silent, alright? Don't talk to anybody—not the cops, not the Feds, not even your new buddy in lock-up. I'm on my way."

Hot tears push at his eyes after he hangs up, but he swallows them back. Jesse's had that poison out of his system for a while now—since he came to Omaha, at the very least. He couldn't have relapsed, not with all the hope they have for a future together.

But Saul knows there's nothing more predictable than a junkie. God, how could he have been so stupid? How could he let himself trust someone who'd been high during most of their interactions? Jesse Pinkman batted his big, blue puppy-dog eyes, and Saul fell for it hook, line, and sinker. Saul Goodman: dupe du jour.

Buck and Billy Ray are standing in a concerned huddle when Saul comes back into the dining room. "Everything alright? Is Aaron hurt?"

Saul shakes his head, wipes a hand over his mouth. "He's in jail."

Billy Ray laughs. "For what? Dognappin'?"

Saul thinks about being honest but decides against it. He moves for the door. "I have to go."

"Now hold your horses," Buck warns him. "Aaron might be your boyfriend, but he's our friend, and we got a certain way of, uh, _persuadin'_ people, if you catch my drift."

Saul forgets these guys are lottery winners, because their house sure as fuck doesn't look like they have cash to burn. "Are you offering to bribe the police?"

Buck shrugs. "All I'm sayin' is people do strange things when money's involved."

Saul chuckles humorlessly.

Billy Ray says, "Let's take the truck," before Saul can protest.


	9. In the Light

It's a slow day at the police station, so Jesse's pretty easy to find. He's gnawing his fingernails in an interrogation room when Saul barges his way inside. "What'd you say to them?"

Relief washes over Jesse's face like a wave crashing into the shore. "Oh, thank God, you're here," he cries, springing out of the chair and rushing toward Saul. Jesse squeezes Saul tight in his arms, and Saul hates himself for the brief flicker of anger he feels toward Jesse for potentially fucking up their bright, big future together.

Saul manages to detach from Jesse's embrace and performs a careful search of the room for any sort of listening devices. "First things first: what did you say to the cops?"

"Nothing. Jesus."

"Good, let's keep it that way. Now, what the hell happened? What did you—" Saul cuts that one off before it stabs deep. He takes a breath to calm himself. He can't come in and start accusing Jesse; that's not why he's here. Jesse's staring at Saul with an imploring, hopeful gaze, and his eyes are red and watery in a way that looks like he's been crying.

Saul starts over, sits in the chair on the other side of the table. "I'm not mad at you. I just want to understand. Tell me what happened."

Jesse heaves a sigh, rubs his tattooed hand over his face while he starts pacing like a caged tiger. "I didn't do anything. There were these two dudes—"

"What'd they look like?"

"One was a little shorter than me. White guy, dark hair with a receding hairline. But he looked kinda young to be losin' his hair. He had, like, 70's glasses and a beard. The other was about my height. Black guy, maybe two-ten, Buddy Holly glasses. Couple'a nerds."

Saul rubs his chin. That's not too specific, but not too vague as to be anybody with a pulse. One point in the honest column. "Okay, keep going."

"I walked by 'em. They stopped me, asked if I wanted to buy some crystal. I asked 'em where they got it, if they cooked it themselves, that sort of thing. I guess that scared 'em and made 'em think I was a cop, 'cause the taller guy took the bag of meth—he had a couple 'teenths wrapped up in a bandana—and just dropped it in front of me before he ran away. Then the other guy went after him. I picked it up to see what was inside, then the cops showed up."

Saul swallows thickly. He doesn't want to ask this, afraid of what the answer might be, but he has to know. "Look, I'm not—I'm not gonna leave you, but you gotta be honest with me, okay? If you were out there looking to buy, that's something I need to know."

Jesse stops pacing, frozen in place by the accusation. "I wasn't, I swear."

Saul's seen a lot of criminals in his lifetime. He's seen guilt manifested on people's faces, seen innocence bursting from clients' every pore. So Saul thinks he's gotten pretty good at recognizing when someone's been falsely accused and when someone's just begging for sympathy.

He's even seen Jesse in various states of sobriety and guilt. Right now, when he looks at Jesse, all he can see is pure and utter heartbreak that Saul could ever doubt him. Devastation. Unfaltering love. But no traces of shame, regret, or deceit. This isn't a case of someone fucking up and realizing their mistake too late; this is someone with a story no one will ever believe, because Jesse got reamed by too many coincidences at once.

"Okay, I trust you, kid." Christ, does Saul feel like an asshole now for ever thinking Jesse had gone back to his old ways. He stands up and moves closer, taking Jesse's hands in his own to quell the way they're shaking. "I'm on your side. The cops, however, probably aren't gonna buy the mysterious strangers story, unless you can lead them to 'em."

Jesse sniffles. "They got my prints. They're gonna find out who I really am... It's all over."

Saul squeezes Jesse's hands. "No. I won't let anything happen to you without a fight."

"What can you even do? There's nothing I can bargain with! I'm the only one left!" he sobs out in a voice that sounds impossibly feeble.

Saul holds his breath. Jesse's prints are probably all over that compound. A case built on the defense of involuntary acts or forced enslavement would be a crapshoot at best, because everyone involved is dead; Jesse's the only one left to take the fall.

Christ, it's like Walt _planned_ it that way. He saved Jesse, played the hero one last time, but made certain Jesse's life post-Heisenberg would be full of paranoia and fear.

Saul hates him though he's already dead.

"I will find you a way through this, Jesse. That's what I do, remember?"

Jesse nods, but he doesn't look like Saul's words comfort him at all. He rakes a hand over his shaved head. Saul pulls him in for a hug, because Jesse needs all the reassurance he can get right now. Saul feels Jesse shake a little as he sobs into his shoulder, and Saul's heart breaks anew.

The door to the interrogation room swings open. Saul immediately lets go of Jesse and steps away, putting distance between them. An officer sticks his head inside the room and looks at Jesse. "You're free to go, sir. Sorry for the trouble."

Jesse whirls his head to look at him, eyes wide in disbelief. "What?"

Saul has to echo that thought out loud.

"Just a big misunderstanding, it seems. Glad we got that all worked out without you havin' to spend the night in lock-up." The officer holds the door for them as they leave.

What the actual fuck is going on? Did—holy shit, did Buck and Billy Ray seriously bribe the police?

Saul leads Jesse out of the room and into the lobby where Buck and Billy Ray are making a fuss over Bark Lee. Saul looks at Jesse. "What—did he get arrested too?"

"He just sorta...jumped in with me."

Bark Lee sees Jesse and trots over to him, his tail wagging. Jesse kneels down and rubs the dog's head. "Sorry about that, buddy. Bet you were scared, huh?" He looks up at Buck and Billy Ray. "How come they let me go? You guys say something?"

Buck shrugs. "Money talks."

Jesse gasps out loud. "You bribed the cops?" he hisses.

"I didn't say that."

He's not denying it either, Saul thinks.

"But sometimes when you got a lot of money, people tend to be a bit more _pliable_ when you ask for somethin'," Buck says.

Yeah, he totally bribed the police.

Saul's more confused now than ever. These cops don't strike him as small-town yokels able to be bought if the price is right. But, apparently, wave enough money in someone's face and they'll look the other way. What a world.

Bark Lee sits between Saul and Jesse in the back seat of the truck, which Saul's a little miffed by, if he's honest. He wants to be near Jesse, to offer him a shoulder of comfort and reassurance. But instead they sit silent while the truck's speakers blare Rush—entirely out of spite, Saul guesses.

But, hey, he's not gonna look a gift-horse in the mouth, as the saying goes. If Buck and Billy Ray paid off the cops, he should be kissing the ground they walk on, because had the police matched those prints to Jesse Pinkman's, their idyllic little life here would be over.

Something to be grateful for this Thanksgiving.

Buck and Billy Ray drop them off at the house. Saul unlocks the door for Jesse, trying to be a gentleman. Jesse shuffles in, his head hung low, completely unappreciative of Saul's chivalry.

Saul clears his throat, unsure if words will help or hurt at this juncture. "So, you, uh, you want dinner?"

"I'm not hungry," Jesse mumbles, taking the stairs.

"You sure? Well, when you are, just let me know." He watches Jesse sulk to the guest bedroom and shut himself inside.

Jesse doesn't come down for dinner.

* * *

In the days leading up to Thanksgiving, Saul makes an effort to be warmer and more loving with Jesse, a feat that's reasonably difficult when Jesse won't even sleep in the same bed with him. But Saul does his best, making special breakfasts for Jesse in the morning, touching him more frequently. Maybe he lets an "I love you" slip once or twice more than he normally would, because Saul hears the quiet sobs on the other side of the guest bedroom door each night.

But he's not going to fuck this up, not when Jesse's so precariously fragile here. Saul's not a big fan of confrontation; he is, however, very fond of problems sorting themselves out. So he figures giving Jesse some space will help and eventually the kid'll want to talk to him again. Give the chagrin time to fade. A couple days and it won't even be a thing anymore, right?

Except it totally _is_ a thing, even on the eve before Thanksgiving. Saul's next door having a drink with Buck and Billy Ray before the two head out of town bright and early in the morning. Bark Lee's already situated at Saul's place, and the pup's made himself at home in Jesse's bedroom, as if he senses Jesse's abysmal mood and wants offer the comfort of his presence. Saul casts glances out the living room window every now and then, wonders if Jesse's healing or hurting.

"You and Aaron still spendin' the holidays together?" Billy Ray asks, snapping Saul from his quiet reverie.

"Oh, uh, yeah."

Buck lifts an eyebrow in a way that makes Saul feel kind of interrogated. "How's he doin'? He alright?"

Saul shrugs lamely. "He's really quiet. He's sorta been staying in his room most of the time. I thought about givin' him space until he feels like talkin' to me again, but..." Saul sighs and rubs a hand over his arm.

Buck gives a disdainful snort. "Is that why you've been divorced three times? You can't just let 'im wallow like that."

Yeah, Saul's strategy sounds really awful phrased that way.

"He said you helped him get outta some rough times before," Buck continues. "Maybe he thinks he let you down."

Saul shakes his head. "No, no way."

"Then you gotta let 'im know that," Billy Ray says. "That boy loves you, and I think he's mighty worried you're disappointed in 'im.

Of course Jesse would see it that way. Christ, Saul's an idiot. He's never been good at confrontation, but it's a skill he's got to learn to keep this relationship afloat; Saul can't depend on Jesse to solve their problems.

When Saul gets home, Jesse's already sequestered himself in the guest room again. So Saul nudges Bark Lee aside and curls up beside Jesse while he sleeps.

Jesse doesn't notice Saul's presence there until the morning. He wakes up, groans, and mumbles something unpleasant that Saul can't make out but still feels insulted by.

Saul chooses to ignore Jesse's grumpiness. "Mornin', Pretty Boy."

Jesse sighs, like he wants to be mad but can't in the face of Saul's pet names.

Saul slinks an arm around Jesse's waist and hugs him closer. "Talk to me, kid. I can't help if I don't know what's wrong."

Jesse doesn't say anything, but Saul can tell he's frowning pretty intensely. It's a gift.

"I'm not mad at you," Saul reminds him, because Jesse needs to hear that. "That little incident the other day? Forgotten. It didn't change anything, especially the way I feel about you. I'm sorry if I ever made you think I didn't trust you."

Saul waits what feels like a silent eternity waiting for Jesse to say something, anything. When he does, his voice is cracked and weary. "Someone's out there cookin' my recipe..."

"That's not on you." Saul kisses the slope of Jesse's neck. "And, hey, how do you know it's your recipe anyway? Who's to say these guys aren't puttin' blue food coloring into their product and passing it off as Blue Sky?"

Jesse stiffens a bit in his arms. "I never really thought about that."

"Your meth was, what, ninety-percent pure?"

"Ninety-six point two." Of course he'd know the exact figure.

"Close enough. But somethin' tells me those aren't beginner numbers, and I got a hunch whoever's cooking this new batch is some wannabe with zero drug manufacturing experience."

Jesse turns over to face Saul. "You really think so?"

"Absolutely. Every famous criminal gets their own gaggle of copycats. They're probably just regular ol' meth cooks lookin' to ride the wave of fame from the Heisenberg case." Saul holds Jesse closer, lets him tuck his chin into the crevice between Saul's neck and shoulder. "I wouldn't lose sleep over it."

"'Course _you_ wouldn't," Jesse murmurs with a slight smile.

"Duh, I got more important things to worry about. Like are you gonna help me today or not? I could use an extra set of hands in the kitchen."

"What's in it for me?"

"Well, I'm making an amazing apple pie you get to share, as well as all the other food. But the pie is pretty noteworthy."

Jesse smirks. "Another ribbon winner?"

"I hear an unfair amount of mockery in your voice."

"'Cause it's just weird. I mean, I never imagined you bein' all down-home, makin' pies and muffins for the county fair."

"Yeah, well, I never imagined bein' in bed with you. Life's full of surprises." Saul gives him a lilt of a smile.

"You're so different than before though. Like, did I ever really know you back then, or are you someone totally new now?"

"Maybe if you'd'a hung out with me outside of work, you would've learned somethin'." In retrospect, that laser tag place would have been the perfect business for Jesse to invest in. Had Saul offered him that instead of the nail salon, who knows where they'd be now?

Jesse shakes his head. "Mr. White would'a never let you get too close."

Yeah, that would have been bad. Maybe it's for the best they finally connected after the dust settled and Walter White is no more. "Well, he's not here now, so I can get as close as I want." Saul kisses Jesse's forehead and snuggles him in close. He hopes that didn't sound as insensitive to Jesse as it did to his own ears. Because Jesse loved Walter White, in his own weird, fucked-up way. And maybe that comment came off as Saul gloating that Walt's gone. Which, okay, he's gloating a little, because Walt was a douchebag.

But Jesse doesn't seem to hear it that way, just wraps his arms tighter around Saul and nuzzles into his chest. "You still want me?"

"'Course I do. I never stopped."

Jesse curls his fingers over Saul's back. "You swear?"

"I'm still here, aren't I?"

"You're too good to me," Jesse sighs out. Neither one of them move to get out of bed, content to breathe the other in and just exist in this perfect little space that's _theirs_ and no one else's. Saul nestles his nose in the material of Jesse's t-shirt. But it doesn't smell like Jesse...

"Did you borrow one of my shirts?"

Jesse remains suspiciously silent.

Saul nudges Jesse's shoulder so he can see the front of the shirt. "You totally did!" He laughs, because this is adorable as hell. "Or you saw the light and became a Zeppelin fan."

Jesse blushes and tugs the blankets over his shirt to hide the evidence of his pilfering. "Not like you were wearin' it."

"Does this mean I can borrow your clothes?"

"If you can fit in 'em."

"And if not, well, you remember the Hulk."

Jesse laughs a throaty sound. "You're so fuckin' weird."

Saul smiles, presses another kiss to Jesse's forehead before sliding his legs over the side of the bed. "C'mon, kid, dinner's not gonna cook itself."

* * *

"How come we're makin' all this food if it's just us?" Jesse asks, staring into the over-stuffed fridge.

"Because that's what people do on Thanksgiving," Saul says. "Plus we won't have to cook for, like, a whole week."

"You just wanna be lazy for the rest of the month, huh?"

"Lazy has such negative connotations. I prefer labor-saving. And the less time we spend in the kitchen, the more time we can spend doing other things." He moves closer, edges a hand underneath Jesse's t-shirt. "_Sexy_ things."

Jesse wets his mouth, flicks his gaze to where Saul's touching the jut of his hip bone. "Oh yeah?"

Saul's dying to get inside of him, though he doesn't want to push for something Jesse's not ready for. It ought to happen naturally, a mutual need. Their current blowjob, handjob, and occasional dry-humping arrangement is pretty solid, but Saul's always looking for ways to improve their sex life.

"See, there's more than just apple pie in this for you."

Jesse wrinkles his nose with a grin. "Are you seriously bribin' me with sex?"

"Yes, and it seems to be working." Saul tosses a glance down where Jesse's hard against his thigh.

Jesse backs away sheepishly and pulls the refrigerator door open. His cheeks are an adorable shade of pink. "So, uh, what happened to the turkey?"

"We're doin' chicken this year, remember? You gave me permission to do whatever the hell I wanted with dinner—granted you may not have been in the best state of mind to do so."

"No, that's cool," Jesse says, scratching the back of his head. "I'm down with whatever." He glances into the fridge again for a silent moment, then asks, "Were you gonna do anything special with it?"

Saul hears the subtext there. "What'd you have in mind?"

Jesse looks shocked to even be asked, like he doesn't think he's allowed to ask for things that he wants. "Well, my aunt used to make this pretty bomb chicken. She taught me the recipe, and I thought maybe..." He trails off with a shrug.

"Yeah, we can do that," Saul says. "This is your Thanksgiving as much as it is mine, you know that, right?" Rhetorical question, but he wants Jesse to know it's okay to want things for himself.

Jesse nods, gives him a smile that makes Saul a little weak in the knees.

They start with the apple pie first, because the forty-minute cook time will give them a window in which to prep the rest of the food. Peeling, coring, and slicing apples is tedious as hell, so Saul plugs his phone into the docked speakers for something to listen to. Jesse pretends to be exasperated by Saul's taste in music, but every now and then Saul catches him mouthing along with the words when he thinks no one's looking.

"Did you always cook for the holidays? Or did you leave that up to your wife?" Jesse asks, working the knife under the skin of an apple.

"When I was married, we'd usually spend a day or two with her folks. So it was kind of a big family thing where they'd have the food ready before we showed up."

The corner of Jesse's mouth pulls into a smirk. "Dodged that bullet, huh?"

"Hey, I wouldn't be opposed to givin' your parents the Thanksgiving disaster they always dreamed of." The idea that they'll never see their families again is too awful to comprehend, so of course Saul cracks jokes about it.

"They would totally freak. I got a boyfriend now."

Saul slides his free hand into Jesse's t-shirt, caressing the slope of his neck. "A boyfriend they've had the pleasure of meeting under—let's call them _unfortunate_—circumstances."

"What about your people? How come you don't really talk about who you used to be?"

"I guess the past just isn't something I think about a lot. The way I see it, you gotta spend your life in the present or else you're just wasting time trying to recapture something like lightning in a bottle."

"Wow, that was deep," Jesse teases. "You should write poems."

Saul watches Jesse's tattooed hand work the knife inside and around the apple. It's kind of erotic, in a weird, deeply disturbing way.

"So you don't think about your family at all?" Jesse prods.

"Sometimes."

"You wanna tell me about them?"

"What'd'ya wanna know?"

Jesse shrugs like he's never considered it before. "Anything, I guess."

"Well, I've got a brother who's a lawyer too. Guess there's an argumentative streak in the family."

"A brother, huh? How come I'm just now hearin' about this?"

"It's not like we talk much—or _at all_, now." Saul tries to disguise the bitterness laced in his words.

"Was he a dick?"

Saul will never tire of Jesse's bluntness. "He could be a hell of a pain in the ass, for sure. But we kinda drifted apart after I became Saul Goodman."

Jesse nods, but he doesn't ask more questions about Saul's past, like he thinks the subject is utterly forbidden.

He treads the topic again after the pie's in the oven and they're working on the stuffing. "Are you ever gonna tell me what your real name is?"

"That's confidential information, Jesse."

Jesse scoffs. "It's somethin' hella dorky, isn't it? That's why you don't wanna tell me." Saul can hear the teasing smile in his voice. "Somethin' like Leopold or Augustine."

Saul laughs. "My parents weren't that pretentious."

"So what is it? C'mon, baby, tell me. I won't laugh, I swear."

It's like Jesse _knows_ Saul can't say no when he calls him "baby" in that whisky-soaked drawl that feels like the drag of stubble against his skin.

"It's not fair for you to know mine if I can't know yours," Jesse says.

"Hasn't anyone ever told you, kid? Life's not fair. If it was, you think we'd be here?" The words tumble out of his mouth like a car crash. He wishes he could claw them back, because it sounds like he's regretting the life they've managed to build together. Which, no, God no. The only part he regrets is that it had to happen this way, that they could only come together through the loss of everyone around them.

So Saul distracts Jesse from that verbal trainwreck by taking a deep breath and saying, "My real name's Jimmy McGill."

He hears Jesse make a noise that sounds an awful lot like a laugh.

"Hey, you promised no laughing!"

"I didn't laugh! I just...blew more air out of my nose than usual." Jesse's voice cracks with a smile. He squints his eyes, tilts his head, like he's seeing Saul in an entirely new light now. "You still look like a Saul to me."

"Now you know my secret shame. You know how this works, right? You gotta tell me something embarrassing about yourself to even the score."

Jesse turns his whole body so he can lay his free hand over Saul's heart, as if trying to heal it. "I would'a fell in love with you no matter if your name was Saul or Jimmy or even somethin' dorky like Augustine."

Jesse _loves him_; God, every time he says it, the words wallop Saul's heart like it's the very first time. He can't help but move in and cover Jesse's mouth with his own, body pinning Jesse's against the kitchen counter. Jesse giggles around the kiss. "Ay yo, c'mon, I'm tryin' to cook."

Saul gives him space, reluctant to deprive himself of even one moment of kissing Jesse. Jesse turns back to the stovetop and stirs the vegetables in the pan. The air smells like crisp, freshly-cooked bacon, but all Saul can focus on are the freckles on the slope of Jesse's shoulder. He drops his head to kiss that perfect angle, and Jesse chuckles.

"Ticklish?"

"No, I just thought of somethin'. Jimmy's short for James, right?"

"Yeah, so?"

"So if you put our names together we'd be Jesse James." Jesse laughs an angel's laugh.

"Maybe it's for the best I'm somebody else," Saul says, a murmur at the shell of Jesse's ear.

They spend the afternoon on the couch, though neither of them eat very much, their mouths too busy roaming over the other's skin. Jesse's sitting in Saul's lap, his head tipped back as Saul's mouth follows the curve of his throat. Saul pushes his hands under Jesse's shirt, gets Jesse's hot, feverish skin under his palms. His thumb tweaks a nipple, and Saul feels Jesse's purr of contentment echo in his bones. Jesse's fingers drag over Saul's back before one hand pushes into his hair. Saul fits his hand to the curve of Jesse's hip, and Jesse grinds into his thigh. Jesse's already hard; Saul wants him so badly it throbs in his pulse, desire settling over his brain like a steamy fog.

Jesse dips his head down to kiss Saul, his fingers twisting in Saul's shirt to pull him closer. He groans a sound of want into Saul's mouth that melts over his tongue. Saul thinks about reaching into his boxers and jerking him off, but Bark Lee hops onto the couch and sits in the empty space beside them.

Saul glares at the dog. "Do you mind?"

Bark Lee tilts his head but does not surrender the couch.

Jesse looks over at him. "Dude, c'mon, we're havin' a moment here."

Saul's never been cockblocked by a dog before. This is an entirely new level of humiliation.

"Go on. Shoo."

Bark Lee just hunkers down and gets comfortable. Ridiculous.

Saul huffs an annoyed sigh and looks at Jesse. "Upstairs?"

Jesse wets his mouth and says, "Upstairs."

Saul barely gets him into the bedroom before he's pulling Jesse's shirt over his head. Jesse drags Saul to the bed, brings him down on top of him as he drops onto the mattress. Saul kisses his mouth, frantic and hungry, before dipping down to lick at the hollow of Jesse's throat, his teeth dragging over the bones jutting out below. He sucks at Jesse's nipple, teasing the nub with his teeth. Jesse gasps and arches into Saul's mouth. Saul lays a hand over Jesse's chest to keep him still, his fingers dragging through the sparse fuzz there.

Saul kisses his way down Jesse's body, sucking bruises into the lattice of his ribs, tongue swirling lazily around his navel. Jesse writhes and squirms underneath it all, making irresistable sounds as his fingers go tight in Saul's hair. Saul nips at the dip of muscle over Jesse's hip that stops abruptly at the edge of his boxers. He hooks his fingers in the elastic and tugs the shorts over Jesse's narrow hips. Jesse wriggles his way out, and Saul has to pause for a moment to appreciate his perfect body.

Jesse's legs shift over the sheets, like he's suddenly shy under Saul's gaze. Saul catches one of his legs beneath the knee and follows the taut line of his inner thigh with his mouth. Jesse trembles, lips spilling praises into the air. "Jesse," Saul murmurs, breathing hot over Jesse's skin.

Jesse makes a sound of acknowledgement.

"I wanna try something"—Jesse pants out a breath—"but if you don't like it just tell me to stop, okay?" He rolls his hips, desperate for Saul's mouth there. But Saul's got something else in mind. He finds the lube in the nightstand drawer, gets his fingers slick. Jesse watches him with slightly parted lips and a gleam of intrigue in his eyes, like this is something he's wanted but was afraid to ask for.

Saul eases a finger in and watches Jesse's face to see how he reacts to the intrusion. Jesse breathes out in a shudder, nudges his hips into Saul's hand like he wants more. Saul pushes in deeper and earns a quiet noise from Jesse. He can feel Jesse's body fluttering open around his finger, inviting him to turn one digit into two. Saul just pulls back and pushes in again at a different angle. This time Jesse moans out loud, his hands gripping the pillow behind him. His legs squirm until Saul hooks an arm around one of his thighs to hold him still. Jesse's breathing's gone loose and quick, his hips twisting in need. Saul strokes inside of him, slow and easy, watching how Jesse's brow knits and his teeth bite at his lower lip each time Saul pushes in. He's making quiet little gasping sounds, quick inhales of breath that make his chest hitch.

"Right there," Jesse coaches, his voice shaking around the words. Saul jabs in, trying to find the spot that needs his touch the most. Jesse purrs in contentment and sinks his hips into the way Saul's stroking and pressing, moans spilling from his lips. He reaches down and curls a tattooed hand around Saul's arm as if guiding him into a proper rhythm. His cock's tight against his belly, flushed red with blood at the head. There's a smear of pre-cum over his stomach; Saul wants to dip down and taste how Jesse's body responds to him.

But that train of thought's cut off entirely when Jesse angles his hips up and moans, "That's it—there—yes," in a cracked little voice; Saul can't help but respond to that by slipping another finger in alongside the first. Jesse claws at the pillow, his fingers digging in around Saul's arm. He's trying to make words, but they won't come out around breathy noises of want and choked gasps of Saul's name. Jesse draws his knee back, and Saul feels him open around his fingers, just enough to where he could add another. But Saul just glances down at where they're connected, the flushed pink of his opening. He squeezes his thighs together, because he's harder than he's ever been, and none of this is making it easier.

Jesse comes with a stutter-shout, like his orgasm's taken him by surprise. He writhes in the sheets, tight around Saul's fingers as he shoots stripes of messy white over his belly. His hips jerk through the aftershocks, and Saul rides them through with him until his fingers are forced out. Jesse looks utterly fucking _wrecked_—in a good way—and Saul's pretty sure Jesse's ruined him for any other sexual partner he could ever have.

Jesse runs his tongue over his lower lip, his open mouth breathing hot and jagged. He slides his hand up Saul's arm. "I'll take care of you. C'mere." He tries to tug Saul closer, and Saul climbs over his body, knees on either side of Jesse's hips. Jesse shoves his shaky hands into Saul's pants and pushes his boxers and pajamas down in one go. Then he's pulling Saul's shirt over his head, and Jesse's got his fingers wrapped around his poor, swollen dick. Saul crawls in closer to cover Jesse's mouth with his own, and Jesse tips his head up into the kiss, hungry for all the affection Saul can give him.

Jesse's kind of clumsy with the handjobs at this angle, but he'll get better with practice. He tugs and strokes like he's never handled a dick before, like one wrong move will wrench the thing clean off. His thumb rubs over the head, and Saul twists his hips into the way Jesse's jerking him. Saul's so close he could probably blow his load from someone just _looking_ at his cock, so Jesse's lack of expertise doesn't matter much. It doesn't take long at all until he's coming between them in quick bursts, gasping Jesse's name around sloppy kisses that Jesse's happy to return in kind. Jesse kisses with no reserve, just open-mouthed affection. He's still breathing hard from his own orgasm, and Saul doesn't know why the heat of Jesse's breath over his mouth turns him on so much.

Jesse gives a shaky laugh. "God, that was awesome..." He pushes his fingers through Saul's hair, his other hand still tugging at Saul's flagging cock. Saul can feel Jesse's thighs quaking at his sides. "_You're_ awesome."

Saul wants to be flattered by that, but Jesse's always pretty agreeable after an orgasm. "You're not too bad yourself."

Jesse just smiles and hugs Saul to his chest, sighing contented puffs into his hair. "I'll never understand how you got three women to divorce you."

"Stick around long enough and you will," Saul says with a humorless smirk against Jesse's skin.

Jesse makes a dissatisfied noise and skims his hands over Saul's back. "Bullshit. Remember how you told me 'you're gonna find somebody who loves everything about you'? Well, so are you. And you already have."

"When'd you become such a sap?" Saul chuckles. His brain chooses that moment to recall in painful clarity every time he'd suggested to Walt that Jesse ought to be "dealt with." If Walt had ever gone through with it... Saul squeezes his eyes shut, holds Jesse tight in his arms. How easily he could have lost the obnoxious, endearing kid who would later become the center of his world.

Saul's never put much stock in destiny or fate, but maybe there's a reason Jesse dodged so many bullets to end up with him here.

Jesse moves to sit up, and Saul crawls off of him to give him space. There's a tacky slide from the jizzapalooza between them when their bodies break apart. Jesse glances down at his cum-smeared belly, and his mouth twists into a small line of contemplation. "Shower time?"

The kid seems to always know how to chase away the clouds.

Once Saul gets him under the hot spray of water, he locks Jesse's back against the line of his body, mouthing kisses over the slope of his neck, the speckles on his shoulders and the tattoo between his shoulder blades. He guides a hand between Jesse's legs, and Jesse gasps, "Oh—God," when Saul rubs two fingers over the spot where they'd been knuckle-deep before. The heel of his hand rolls against Jesse's balls with every stroke and press, and as Jesse shudders and shakes Saul can feel him growing harder under his palm.

Jesse tilts his head back, panting moans and groans into the air. He opens a little, and Saul can't help but push a finger inside of him, just enough to get Jesse shoving his hips into Saul's hand and moaning obscenities. He's gone impossibly tight, and Saul has to reach down with his other hand and play with Jesse's dick, jerking him off lazily. Technique doesn't matter here; Jesse's got a hair-trigger that's so much fun to set off.

Jesse comes with a grunt behind clenched teeth that dissolves into a needy moan. Saul keeps stroking him until he's spent, and Jesse's body shakes like his knees might give out beneath him. Saul holds him steady, rubs him through the aftershocks, and when Jesse slumps against him Saul murmurs, "I love you," at the shell of Jesse's ear, because he can be a sap too.


	10. Whole Lotta Love

November fades into December, and the warm-hued leaves begin to fall from the trees as a steady blanket of snow covers the ground. Jesse's never experienced winter like this, never had to stamp snow off of his boots when he comes home or scrape ice off of the windshield. The coldest he's ever been were those awful nights in the compound, shivering and alone. Spending a frigid night cuddled up to Mr. White in the RV comes a close second.

He hates that he thinks so much about Mr. White now. Because, yeah, Jesse kind of misses him, and he feels shitty about that when he's got a happy home life and an awesome boyfriend. But Mr. White was familiar in a way Jesse knew how to deal with. At some point, Jesse learned to brush off all the insults and the mistreatment and try to get to the creamy, nougat-y center of Mr. White's Problem of the Week. But Saul is all compliments and soft touches and gentleness, and fuck if Jesse knows how to handle _that_. Saul never yells at him or berates him, doesn't shove Jesse around or insist on getting his way. When Saul says he loves Jesse, it sounds absolutely true. Better than true.

So it's only natural that Jesse would find himself awake every couple of nights thinking about Mr. White. He's sitting on the porch looking out into the backyard, knees drawn up to his chest as he puffs on a cigarette. He can see into Buck and Billy Ray's yard, and Bark Lee's food bowls are gone. His doghouse looks empty, and the tattered rope that usually tethers him there lies on the ground. He must have been brought inside so he'd stay warm.

From behind him, Jesse hears the porch door slide open. "What're you doin' out here, kid?" Saul asks in a sleepy voice.

Jesse raises the hand holding the cigarette. But he knows Saul's smart enough to see through his lie.

"You have another nightmare?" Saul sits beside him on the bench, wrapped up in a throw to shield himself from the cold.

Jesse shakes his head and taps the ash from his cigarette. His wet, red eyes probably aren't doing him any favors.

Saul snuggles closer to siphon some of Jesse's body heat or offer some of his own. "If you don't wanna talk about it, I won't push you. But sometimes talking about stuff makes it easier to deal with."

Jesse wipes his face with his free hand. "You'll hate me..."

"Not even possible," Saul says, his breath a visible plume of air in the cold. And it sounds sincere enough that Jesse believes him, or maybe he just wants to talk about this before it eats him up.

"I've been thinkin' about him a lot lately..." Because nothing says "I'm so happy we're together" like "I kind of miss my abusive ex-partner who screwed me over time and time again."

Saul just nods like he understands. "Nothin' wrong with that."

"It feels wrong though," Jesse says, rubbing his hand over his head. "Why do I miss him at all?"

"He was an important part of your life, Jesse."

Jesse looks at Saul through blurry eyes. "Y'know I was probably the last person he saw before he died?" His throat goes tight from choking back sobs. Saul wraps an arm around his shoulders and tucks Jesse up against him. "Sometimes I feel like he wasn't _that_ bad... Y'know? Like, he did the best he could with me."

Saul fixes him with a look that Jesse wants to shrink away from, because it feels like Saul can see into his fucking _soul_. "You don't think you deserve to be loved." It comes out like a statement, an observation, and Saul watches Jesse with a pained gaze. "That's why you miss him, isn't it?"

Jesse opens his mouth, closes it, devoid of words.

"He was cruel and a piece of shit, but that's what you're used to, right? You don't know how to handle someone treating you like you're important."

Jesse stretches out the silence by taking another drag off of the cigarette. Yeah, Saul's pretty much hit the nail on the head here. They're growing closer as each day passes, and it scares the fuck out of Jesse.

"What if he was right though?" Jesse asks. "What if I'm not important?"

Saul lowers his mouth to Jesse's ear and says, "Then let's be wrong together."

The sound of an engine growing closer makes Jesse perk up. It's not particularly loud, but four a.m. isn't exactly the peak traffic hour through their sleepy little street. Jesse listens as the sound ebbs, fades down the other side of the street. His paranoia kicks in and floods his brain with a million possibilities, none of them comforting.

Saul picks up on his distress. "What's up?"

Jesse shakes his head dismissively, puffs on the cigarette. "Nothin', I'm just not used to hearin' cars at this time of night."

"You're usually in bed at this time of night," Saul reminds him, but it's just a gentle observation, not a lecture or scolding.

The car probably belongs some drunk who turned down the wrong street. Jesse knows this, but it doesn't keep his skin from prickling with a chill that has nothing to do with the weather.

Saul lifts an eyebrow. "Be honest: you thought that was him, didn't you?"

"Shut up, no, I didn't," Jesse snaps, except for a brief moment he totally _did_. Because it would be just like Mr. White to fake his own death and silently stalk Jesse. Jesse's not sure how that would actually work, but Mr. White's pulled off seemingly-impossible schemes before.

Saul hugs him tighter. "C'mon, kid, we live next to two gun-toting rednecks. We're safe."

Out of context, that sentence sounds very dubious. Jesse relaxes a little and melts into Saul's embrace. "I know Mr. White's not really alive."

"Do you?"

Jesse frowns. "Okay, I'm, like, ninety percent sure he's not."

"That's a pretty large margin for error."

"You met the dude, right? He could totally pull some Houdini shit like that." Jesse takes one final drag and stubs out the cigarette into a nearby ashtray.

"How? The cops already knew Walter White was Heisenberg; he couldn't pin the blame on some other sucker. And he couldn't possibly have bribed everyone involved—police, news media, the Feds—to broadcast false news of his death. They take him into custody, it's over. You got nothin' to worry about, kid. 'Cept maybe frostbite." He pokes at Jesse's bare feet with his own foot before standing up. "C'mon, let's go back inside while I can still feel my feet."

Jesse casts a quick glance over his shoulder before following Saul into the house.

* * *

Jesse loves spending time in Saul's bedroom, probably because it reminds him of hanging out with Badger, Combo, and Skinny Pete, sinking low in beanbag chairs and getting high. A gigantic lava lamp—yes, Saul actually owns one—sits on the bureau across from the bed and casts a neon glow against the walls.

There's a pair of tall, glass speakers filled with water on the nightstand by the bed. Jesse watches the multicolored lights reflect off the dancing water to the beat of the music.

"How come you don't have a record player?" Jesse asks, entranced by the light and water show.

"I do. It's just in the closet, buried under other junk I saved from my golden days."

"Does it still work?"

"Beats me. I don't have any records to test on it."

Jesse gives him a wide-eyed look. "Seriously?"

"Well, I used to, until my brother threw them away."

"What a dick."

"To be fair, he only did it because I slashed his tires—just three of them so it wouldn't be covered by insurance. That car was his pride and joy."

Jesse laughs. "No way!"

"I don't even remember what the fight was about," Saul says. "But the day after, I come home and all my records are gone and he's standing there laughing at me." Saul glances off wistfully. "I had every Zeppelin LP too."

"You slashed his tires," Jesse reminds him, because that seems like a pretty pertinent point.

"He deserved it. Probably."

Jesse breathes out laughter and rolls over, leaning against the warmth of Saul's form. He gets distracted staring at a black light version of The Beatles' Sergeant Pepper's album cover hanging on the wall. "Do you and Austin Powers have the same interior decorator?"

Saul chortles. "You're not the first person to ask me that."

"God, I hope not."

"The first was actually Mike."

"_Our_ Mike?"

"Yeah, we go way back."

Jesse's glad that the Saul he fell in love with isn't an entirely new persona sculpted for his new life in Omaha. That, even amidst all the fuckery taking place in Albuquerque, Saul still came home to black lights and tie-dye and psychedelic patterns.

"Of course, when he saw my place I had a water bed," Saul says, off-handedly.

Jesse can't help but crack up at that. "And he was still friends with you?"

"In a very loose sense of the word." Saul glances off into the distance. "I miss that bed." Then he looks at Jesse. "Y'know, Christmas is comin' up—"

"Yo, you are not gettin' a water bed. I gotta draw the line somewhere."

"You say that because you've never had sex on one."

Jesse gives him flat eyes. "_Nobody's_ had sex on a water bed."

Saul sticks out a hand as if offering a handshake. "Hi, I'm Nobody."

Jesse just stares at him. "Okay, one: wow, awesome Dad Joke. Two: no, you fuckin' didn't."

Saul just smirks and pushes a hand underneath Jesse's t-shirt, skimming over the valley of his spine. "Would you have sex with me on a water bed?"

Jesse tries very hard not to smile, but Saul's fingers over his skin and the thought of having sex with him at all makes that impossible. "No," he says, his mouth fighting a smile at the edges.

Saul grins. "You so would."

"Shut up," Jesse giggles, hiding his face behind his hands. "No, I wouldn't."

"You're thinking about it, at least."

Blood pools beneath his cheeks. "I think about havin' sex with you all the time." Yeah, that wasn't embarrassing at all. He's amazed he could maintain eye contact for more than two seconds.

A teasing smile grows on Saul's lips. "Really? Then why are we not doing it now?"

"It takes two, yo."

Saul watches him for a moment, then he moves in and covers Jesse's mouth with his own. Jesse makes a satisfied noise around the kiss, reaching up to thread a hand through Saul's hair. Saul kisses him harder and slips a finger beneath the elastic of Jesse's shorts. The warm digit against his hip makes Jesse groan, and Saul's tugging the shorts down Jesse's legs. Jesse figures if he's going to be naked Saul ought to lose his shirt at least. Saul lets him drag the material over his head, and Jesse doesn't fight when it's his turn to strip, discarding his own t-shirt somewhere on the floor.

Saul's hands roam and explore Jesse's body, palming curves and angles and making him sigh as his dick swells with want. Then Saul's mouth chases the paths his fingers traced, and his tongue glides and swirls over nipples and around Jesse's navel. Jesse grunts, fisting a hand in Saul's hair as Saul mouths kisses over the inside of his thighs. His hips writhe under the affection, twisting and pleading for Saul's mouth elsewhere. And Saul grants him that, at least momentarily. He takes the head of Jesse's cock between his lips, tongue flicking out to taste the beads of pre-cum at the tip. Jesse melts under the heat of his mouth.

"Jesus—fuck," Jesse stutters out, nails dragging over the back of Saul's head. Through half-lidded eyes, he watches the glow of the lava lamp travel lazily along the walls. He slides his hands over Saul's back and pushes at the waistband of his pants. "I want you." He licks his lips. "So fuckin' bad."

Saul stops, lifts his head to look at Jesse, because this is new for both of them. He opens his mouth like he's about to say something but thinks better of it. He crawls up Jesse's body, kissing him hungrily. Jesse shoves Saul's pants off of his hips, because all he can think about is Saul fucking into him hard and deep. Saul rifles through the nightstand drawer for the bottle of lube, snaps open the cap and gets a thick, clear glob in his palm. Jesse watches Saul's hand glide over his dick and coat himself in the oil. Then Saul pushes two slippery fingers into Jesse, just enough to ease him open and make the breath catch in his throat.

Jesse hooks his legs around Saul's hips, because there's no way to misinterpret that. Saul's hand stops pushing inside of him, catches his leg right beneath the knee, and then he's easing his way inside. Jesse's mouth opens in a gasp of surprise, and he adjusts his hips to make the slide easier. It doesn't hurt, but he's only ever had Saul's fingers inside of him, so the size difference is pretty jarring. He presses his heels against Saul's ass to push him deeper.

"Is it—is it okay?" Saul asks around a gulp of breath.

"Yeah, totally," Jesse huffs out. He links his hands around the back of Saul's neck and tips his head up to kiss him. Saul rolls his hips in slow pulses that make Jesse drop his head back onto the pillow, because Saul's dick tags his prostate with every thrust, and, fuck, that's so good it's obscene. Saul stretches over him, kisses the bristly line of his chin. Jesse digs his fingers into Saul's hair, draws his knees back a bit to make the shove of their hips a little deeper.

Jesse really wants this to last longer, but the way his body feels like an impossibly taut wire tells him he's going to come pretty soon. It's not his fault Saul's grinding ceaselessly inside of him, the head of his dick nudging against his sweet spot. He brings Saul's mouth to his own, kissing him hungrily around open-mouthed gasps and moans. He trails over his jaw, teeth catching Saul's earlobe. Jesse starts murmuring soft praises and panting at Saul's ear, and Saul's breathing hot into the bend of Jesse's shoulder, so he doesn't notice the shift in their sexcapade soundtrack until Jesse starts giggling.

Saul stops, pushes up on his arms and looks at Jesse. "What? Why are you laughing? Did I do something wrong?"

"No, dude, this song is perfect." At some point, the music floating out of the speakers transitioned into AC/DC's "You Shook Me All Night Long," and Jesse can't stop laughing. "You totally planned this, didn't you?"

"Maybe my phone wants to help us get laid."

Jesse laughs again and pulls Saul's mouth down to his own, shoving his hips into the way Saul's rocking between his legs. Each thrust makes his nerves go tight, and he shakes, grips at Saul's back as the pressure builds and blazes. He feels his body open around Saul's cock, allowing him to drive in deeper. Jesse gasps as the thread of his orgasm begins to unravel, and when Saul murmurs, "Come for me, Pretty Boy," low and breathy at his ear, Jesse does.

* * *

Jesse's shoving a handful of fries into his mouth when Maggie asks, "You know what you're gettin' for Christmas?"

He shakes his head, sort of shrugs with his mouth full. "I 'unno," he mumbles. Outside the break room, Duane's wiping grease off of his hands while he talks to the owner of the car he'd just been working on.

Jesse swallows, says, "I never really thought about it. I mean, I got everything I want." He gives zero fucks about how cheesy that sounds, because it's true. He has a nice, normal life—well, relatively—and someone who loves him. What more could he want?

Maggie smiles in that way when she's charmed by something Jesse says but doesn't want to show it. "What about Saul? What're you gettin' him?"

That gets him talking. "I got a couple ideas. He's into all that hippie shit, so I thought maybe I could get him one of those weird-ass lights from Spencer's or somethin'."

Maggie smirks. "Y'know they got sex toys there?"

Jesse laughs. "Yeah, we don't need any of that." Sex with Saul is, hands down, the best sex Jesse's ever been involved in. It's got nothing to do with size or technique—though Jesse's not complaining. As unsexy as it sounds, it's all about trust; Jesse's never been able to let go the way he does with Saul. Vibrators and edible underwear can't hold a candle to pure, unadulterated trust.

Yeah, Jesse's vanilla as hell.

"I'm free this weekend if you need a shopping buddy," Maggie offers.

Jesse smiles. It's been a while since he's spent time with anyone other than Saul or Buck and Billy Ray. This will be nice for a change. "Sure. That'd be cool."

Out of the corner of his eye, Jesse spies a car rolling into the garage. Maggie slides her chair away from the table and stands up. "Great! Text me with deets—if your crappy, prehistoric phone can send texts," she jokes before pushing the break room door open.

Jesse really needs a new phone. Maybe he should drop hints around Saul, see if an iPhone magically appears under their non-existent Christmas tree this year.

He watches the activity outside the window while he finishes his lunch. Through the tinted glass, he sees a man step out of the car that just pulled into the bay, and, holy shit, _no_. That's the bearded guy who tried to sell to him.

No. No fucking way.

Jesse's still wearing his hoodie from when he'd braved the bite of winter to grab his lunch, so he subtly draws the hood over his head to block Beardy's view of his face. Sure, the glass is tinted and he'd have to be intently focused on Jesse to recognize him, but Jesse's not taking any chances. Duane and Maggie don't need to know about that little, uh, altercation.

Could Beardy and his crew be following Jesse? Does Jack Welker's gang have connections in Nebraska and Beardy is, what, keeping an eye on Jesse?

Let's not get completely paranoid here.

An innocent explanation is still possible. Beardy's car is kind of crappy, nothing too new or high-end, so it's not like he's spending his drug money on a fancy new ride. His clothes are pretty basic too. Maybe he's new to the drug game. Like Saul had said, Blue Sky probably has a slew of copycats. This guy could be one of them.

Jesse hides in the break room until Beardy's gone; he gets an hour off the clock and he's going to use it, goddamn it. Later that evening, Jesse sneaks onto the computer and accesses the service records. The records require a password, so Jesse types in the administrator code he'd seen Maggie or Duane type in on occasion. The folder opens. Jesse sorts the files by date so the newest ones are on top. He clicks through until he finds what he's looking for: Beardy's Ford Taurus.

He glances around to make sure he's not being watched. He knows this level of paranoia is ridiculous, that no one's going to cast suspicion on his computer usage; Duane and Maggie use the computer all the time on slow days to watch Youtube videos or check Facebook. But that doesn't make him feel any less jittery.

Beardy's real name is Brad Donovan, and the file lists more information about Brad's car, obviously, than Brad himself. But Jesse has a name and a phone number now, which is more than he had ten seconds ago.

On a hunch, Jesse plugs the name Brad Donovan into Facebook and hits something approaching pay dirt. There's a couple Brad Donovans in the Facebook directory, but only one with a profile picture that Jesse recognizes. The profile is public, which Jesse figured it would be. Most people Brad's age are all too eager to share with the world; Jesse envies that brand of naiveté.

He clicks on the "about" page. Brad currently attends the University of Nebraska Omaha, majoring in film production. His minor is—get this—criminal justice. Jesse snorts a laugh under his breath. None of the pictures in Brad's photo albums appear particularly incriminating, although some of the shots include Glasses, the other dealer Jesse "met" briefly. Hmm. Curious and curiouser.

Quite a few pictures feature a chubby, goofy-looking Siamese cat that Jesse surmises must belong to Brad. So the guy's a cat lover. Interesting, in a who-cares sort of way. Frequent co-stars in the photo albums are a tall Chinese girl with long, pastel pink hair, a short Hispanic girl, a lanky white guy with scruffy facial hair and a dumb-looking hat, and, of course, Glasses. Jesse wonders how they know Brad, if they're involved in his student film or just casual friends. Is one of the girls his girlfriend?

The better question is: who cares? None of this is Jesse's business anyway. Brad Donovan is a nondescript, normal college student. Who just so happens to be slinging meth in his spare time. Yeah, right, sure. That makes sense.

Then again, hadn't Duane's brother Shawn been the same way? And look what happened to him.

Saul would tell Jesse to forget about this and not to entangle himself in this kind of crap again. "This isn't your problem," Saul would say, because he's the epitome of sensitivity. And maybe he's got a point. But Jesse can't shake the feeling that there's something meaningful in running into this guy twice.

Jesse closes the browser tab and clears the cache before helping Duane and Maggie close the shop.

* * *

On Saturday evening, the first thing Jesse notices when he comes through the front door trailing cold air is the smell of pumpkin and apple spice. Then he notices the decorations. There's a Christmas tree in the living room draped in multi-colored lights with various ornaments dangling from its branches. Glittering tinsel wraps around the kitchen island, and a string of white lights lines the archway above the hall.

Jesse knows now that Saul had everything to do with the tacky decorating at his strip-mall office. Lord Almighty.

"So this is"—he searches for a neutral word—"festive." Jesse kicks the snow off of his shoes, shrugs out of his oversized hoodie and tosses it over the couch.

"While you were out buying presents, I thought I'd decorate," Saul says. "Speaking of presents, don't you dare come into this house empty-handed."

Jesse rolls his eyes. The presents are safely locked away in the trunk of his car, but telling Saul that would spoil the surprise. Jesse ignores him and moves closer. "Did you actually go buy all this crap?"

Saul shakes his head. "I just went next door. You wouldn't believe all the Christmas stuff Buck and Billy Ray keep around. They've actually got one of those singing fish with a Santa hat, and—don't give me that look, I didn't bring it over here."

Jesse breathes a sigh of relief. "So what's with the smell? You make another pie?"

"Close. Muffins. I might even say they're better than the blueberry." Saul pushes a tray of muffins across the counter at Jesse, who raises a dubious eyebrow at the four empty spaces in the pan.

"Did Buck and Billy Ray say that?"

"I'm offended you think I'd let them sample my cooking before you."

Jesse isn't fazed by the flattery. "So where's the rest of 'em?"

"Currently working their way through my small intestine. Or is it the large intestine? I always get those confused."

"You ate four muffins?" Jesse asks, like he's only half-certain he heard correctly. He lays a hand atop one particularly large pastry. "Dude, these are still warm. Did you even bother takin' off the paper before you shoved 'em in your mouth?"

Saul gives him a look.

Jesse just laughs, because this is the cutest thing he's ever seen that isn't Bark Lee's paws twitching in his sleep. "Do you always go balls-out around Christmas?"

"It's been a while since I've had somebody to share it with," Saul says, trying too hard to act like it's nothing. "And you decorated for Halloween, so it's my turn now."

Jesse grins and lays his hands on Saul's chest, moving in for a kiss. Saul kisses him back with unreserved affection, fits his hand along the curve of Jesse's cheek and feathers his thumb over the scars there. Jesse makes a happy sound against Saul's mouth, and Saul pushes his free hand under Jesse's t-shirt and skims over his stomach.

"You gonna give me any hints about my presents?" Saul asks around a kiss.

"Hell no. Where's the fun in that?"

"You got me the water bed, didn't you? It's okay, I'll pretend to be surprised."

Jesse breaks away a bit to affix him with a skeptical look. "I don't think they even make those anymore."

"So you _have_ looked?"

Jesse shakes his head with a smile and kisses him again. "You're ridiculous."

"All I'm saying is sex is seriously improved when you bring a water bed into the equation."

"Our sex is pretty damn awesome."

Saul spreads his hands as if making a point.

Jesse grabs at the edges of Saul's pants and tugs him closer. "So why fix what ain't broke?" Saul mouths kisses along the curve of Jesse's neck, and Jesse hums satisfaction. "This isn't gonna make me tell you, by the way."

"Damn it," Saul grumbles around a huff of amusement over Jesse's throat.

Jesse can't help but be entertained by Saul's childlike anticipation. He links his hands at the small of Saul's back. "Just lemme surprise you, alright? It'll be great. I promise."

"Sounds fair. But you have to let me give you one of your gifts early."

Jesse is completely down for opening presents, even if he knows it's partially a bribe on Saul's part. Whatever. Free (early) presents. He's not going to complain. "Hell yeah, give it to me."

Saul smirks. "Hey, that could be the name of our sex tape."

Jesse fights a smile and pulls at Saul's t-shirt. "C'mon, I wanna see it."

"And there's the prequel."

Jesse swats at Saul's chest with a playful hand. "Gimme my present or I'm takin' yours back. It's not too late for store credit."

Saul watches him with a kindly, adoring gaze that makes Jesse feel stripped bare; he doesn't think he'll ever get used to that. "Well, I was thinking, since we're, y'know, boyfriends, and you spend pretty much all your time with me anyway, maybe you'd, uh, want to...put your stuff in my room?"

Jesse's mouth opens around a sound of stunned surprise. "You want me to move in with you?" The way Saul blushes at the question is just _adorable_.

"Technically, you already live with me, but, hey, we can take it one step further, right? Maybe we could turn your old room into something useful like a home office or a game room. Whatever, that's—that's just future speculation. We'll figure it out, if that's what you want, of course."

A grin spreads across Jesse's lips. "You are so fuckin' cute when you're nervous." Saul blushes impossibly redder. "'Course I'll move in with you." Jesse hugs him closer. "You know you're probably gonna have to compromise on some of your décor."

"That's a sacrifice I'm willing to make for you, kid," Saul cajoles him, curling a hand around the back of Jesse's head.

* * *

Saul wakes Jesse up on Christmas morning with soft kisses to the back of his neck, which eventually devolves into Jesse sucking Saul's cock. He can't help it; he loves it. He loves the way Saul shifts and moans under his lips, the slight dig of his fingers over Jesse's scalp, the raspy huffs of breath Saul makes when he's close. Jesse even loves the taste of Saul when he comes, salty and thick in his mouth. This is something he can do for Saul, something he's good at, and Saul gives him the best kind of praise.

Jesse's licking cum off of his lips when Saul crushes their mouths together and kisses him in hungry pecks. Jesse moans sweetly, enjoying the open-mouthed affection. Saul murmurs, "I love you," over and over between kisses.

"You just love me 'cause I blow you," Jesse says.

"It's not a downside," Saul answers before kissing the smirky line of Jesse's mouth.

Jesse lays his hands on Saul's shoulders, rising up on his knees to look down at him. Saul gives him a lazy smile, spent and sated, trying to catch his breath after his orgasm wrecked him and left him dry. If there's any downside to Jesse's sex life, it's Saul's recuperation period. But Saul's got hands and a mouth, which he often puts to good use, so Jesse's not too put out about the wait time. He settles his hips on Saul's torso, grinds against him and feels the friction ripple through his nerves like a shockwave. Jesse grunts, his bottom lip tucked between his teeth, and shifts his hips to find a new angle.

Saul grabs onto Jesse's hips with one hand and stops his needy rutting. "Be patient, kid. I'll get you off." His free hand digs in the nightstand drawer, finds the bottle of lube. He gets two fingers sufficiently slick and slides his hand under Jesse's hips. Saul pushes his way in, and Jesse whines, shaking out a breath as he drops down and sinks upon Saul's fingers. He can't help but shove forward, and each thrust grinds his balls into the heel of Saul's hand. It's all heady and overwhelming as fuck, and he can't stop.

"Oh God—ah—shit," Jesse moans, his head tipped back as his hips rock and tilt into Saul's hand. That's when Saul starts moving his hand, pushing and sliding so perfectly that it steals the words from Jesse's tongue.

Jesse still doesn't know how to handle the way Saul looks at him when they're together like this, watching him with intense eyes that make Jesse feel more naked than he's ever been with anyone else. Because Saul's not blinded by lust here. He sees everything: the way Jesse's thighs quake when he rises up and sinks down again, the crease of brow when Saul's wet fingers fill him up, Jesse's cock hard and tight against his belly, the wet trails of pre-cum on his skin. Saul watches it all with appreciation of the way Jesse's body responds to him, like he's worshipful.

Jesse gasps and rocks into Saul's touch, and Saul takes him apart, easy and unhurried. "Yeah, just like that, Jesse," he coos, squeezing Jesse's balls in his palm.

Jesse chokes on Saul's name in his throat and feels himself open a little around his fingers. Saul could slide another one in, but he doesn't, just ghosts his fingertips over Jesse's prostate until every muscle's pulled impossibly tight. Jesse's breath hitches. He can feel himself coming, he's so close, so wide open—

"That's it," Saul coaxes, stroking deep and lavish with his fingers, "give it up for me, Pretty Boy."

Jesse's orgasm leaves him in wet stripes across his belly and a low moan in his throat. His hips thrash against Saul's hand, greedy for every ripple of pleasure he can wring out. Jesse whimpers out praises cut through with Saul's name as his whole body shakes, feeling like he's being pulled apart. He can't stop his hips from grinding into Saul's hand, but that's okay, because Saul's edging his fingers out with care, letting Jesse take what he needs.

"You're so good at this," Saul says softly, skimming his free hand up the hot length of Jesse's thigh. His thumb traces over the dip of his hip bone. Jesse flushes under the gentle touch. "You're perfect."

Pleasure blooms in Jesse's gut despite his orgasm. He feels like he could come again from Saul's praise alone. "Good at what?" Jesse slides a hand along Saul's arm. "Havin' orgasms?"

"Hey, it's an art."

Jesse climbs his way off of Saul on shaky legs. "I need a shower," he grumbles, like he's irritated about this particular fact, but cum-smeared and well-fucked isn't a bad way to start the day.

Saul's there to right him when he stumbles a bit. "Oh, what'd'ya know, I need one too." He lays his hands over Jesse's hips and guides him into the shower stall.

Jesse doesn't mind when Saul shoves him against the wet tile and grinds ceaselessly against him, his swollen dick rutting against the curve of Jesse's ass. Jesse doesn't even raise complaint when Saul comes in a splatter over his backside, because it's been ages since he was actually happy on Christmas.

Eventually, they make their way downstairs where Bark Lee's waiting by the Christmas tree with an irritated look on his face. "You think he knows it's Christmas?" Jesse wonders aloud. "God, he's like a little kid."

"You didn't open anything, did you?" Saul asks the pup. Bark Lee just hunkers down on all fours and settles his chin on his front paws. Saul huffs exasperation and glances at Jesse. "Look at him. He knows what he did."

Jesse grins. "No, oh my God, that's so cute! He wants to open presents!" He tugs on Saul's t-shirt to pull him in the direction of the tree. "How can you deny that adorable little face anything?"

"Guess I can't." Saul's giving Jesse that warm gaze of admiration again, and Jesse doesn't think he'll ever feel comfortable enough in his own skin not to blush and glance away beneath it.

Outside, a thick blanket of snow covers the backyard and buries nearly everything under a cloud of fluffy white. Jesse stares out the clear glass doors to the porch, mesmerized. He's not used to seeing this much snow at once; winter in Albuquerque rarely resulted in much snowfall, and trips out of state to visit relatives were even rarer.

Saul snakes his arms around Jesse's waist, feathers kisses over the back of his neck. Jesse hums a contented sound. "You act like you've never seen snow before," Saul teases, slipping a hand under Jesse's t-shirt. His fingers drag across Jesse's stomach in a way that feels like it's going somewhere, and Jesse has to cover Saul's hand with his own and push it away.

"So you're _not_ into the idea of goin' at it against this window?" Saul asks, like he's genuinely surprised.

Jesse thinks facing Saul might improve their current situation. "Gonna have to say 'hell no' to that one. 'Cause that'd be the one time somebody sees us."

Saul lifts an eyebrow. "I never would have associated Jesse Pinkman with the word 'shy.'"

"When it comes to strangers seein' my junk? Hell yeah." Saul's mouth does a frowny thing, and Jesse laughs. "Are you tryin' to distract me from the presents 'cause you think your gifts for me are hella lame or somethin'?"

Saul does that nervous chuckle Jesse knows so well. "What? No, c'mon, that's—that's silly. Why would I—"

Jesse takes Saul's hands in his own and immediately shuts him up. "This is the first Christmas in years where I've actually had presents to open. I don't care if you got me _socks_, dude." Jesse can't even remember his last normal holiday, let alone excitement on Christmas morning. He needs this normalcy, and he wants to share it with Saul.

Saul's brow creases, as if Jesse's tragic streak of lackluster Christmases pains him somehow. "Don't worry, kid. It's not socks." He drops down beside Bark Lee and hands Jesse a present from under the tree.

Jesse turns the package over in his hands, like he can tell what's in the box through touch alone. He decides "fuck that" and tears open the paper. Underneath the wrapping is a fancy, sleek new cell phone. He might actually gasp aloud. "Way better than socks," Jesse says, stunned into near-silence. This couldn't possibly have been cheap.

There's no way Jesse's gifts for Saul aren't going to seem ridiculously lame in comparison.

"I thought you could use a phone that doesn't look like you're some sort of 90's time traveler," Saul jokes. "And we can send each other pictures." He smirks in a sleazy sort of way.

"Of course you'd find a way to use technology to be gross," Jesse says, shaking his head.

"There's also GPS so you'll never get lost again," Saul adds. He smiles warmly and reaches under the tree again, withdraws a thick envelope with Jesse's name written on the front. "Here's part two."

Jesse's eyes widen. "There's more?" How can there be _more_? As if he hasn't already been disgustingly upstaged.

"Of course."

Jesse takes the envelope in shaky hands, almost afraid of what he might find in it. He slips a finger under the tape, opens the flap. Inside the envelope are hundred-dollar bills. Twenty of them, to be exact. Jesse's mouth goes dry. He thinks about making a joke, but the gift of speech seems to have abandoned him.

"You mentioned you wanted to, uh, pimp your ride, as it were, so I thought I'd make a little contribution to making your car look ridiculous." Saul's watching Jesse's face, and it must not be very comforting, because he adds, "But, if you changed your mind, you can use the money for whatever. An Xbox, a home theater..." He shrugs, looking aggrieved by Jesse's silence.

"You gave me two thousand dollars?"

The corner of Saul's mouth pulls into a half-smile. "Yeah?"

Jesse wets his lips and gathers the nerve to look at him. "Where'd you get this? You didn't..." He doesn't say the words, but he doesn't need to.

Saul reads him loud and clear. "What? No, c'mon, kid, give me some credit. I know a guy."

That _so_ doesn't ease Jesse's mind.

"You know there are people who, for a small fee, take your money and put it in stocks, right? I didn't have to sell my body or whatever outlandish explanation you had in mind."

"You'd make an awesome prostitute though," Jesse says, trying to be reassuring. "I'd pay money to sleep with you."

"This is the weirdest conversation we've had in a while. But...thanks, I guess?"

Jesse's run out of ways to stall for time. He sorts through the bills in his hands. "You're too good to me."

"No such thing." Saul smiles.

Jesse glances away, his face heating up under Saul's gaze. "Thank you." He wonders if there's time to distract Saul long enough to buy him something expensive. Shit, there's probably no stores open today. He's so screwed.

"I'd be happy with socks too, y'know," Saul says, his mouth a warm line of love and honesty, and Jesse gets it. How many holidays did Saul spend alone before he met Jesse? Maybe Jesse doesn't need to get him anything expensive or fancy; his gut instinct told him Saul would be happy with something that showed Jesse put thought into choosing a gift.

Jesse digs his present out from beneath the tree. "I wish I could'a got you more, but I don't..." He trails off, rubs the back of his neck. "I don't have as much money as you."

"Despite my gifts to you, I'm really not superficial." Saul chuckles weakly. "I just do what I can with what I've got."

"Me too," Jesse offers, hopeful as he hands Saul the neatly-wrapped box. He holds his breath while Saul tugs at the paper. What if he hates it? What if he thinks the whole idea is stupid and regrets his own gifts to Jesse?

But Saul doesn't do any of that. He grins when he rips off the wrapping paper and sees what's inside. "This is because I told you about my record collection, isn't it?"

Jesse smiles despite himself. "Yeah, a little bit."

Inside the box are five LPs in near-mint condition: "Houses of the Holy," "Physical Graffiti," and "IV" by Led Zeppelin, AC/DC's "Back in Black," and The Doors' self-titled debut. Jesse had picked them up at a thrift store when he'd gone shopping with Maggie. The whole lot only cost him about ten bucks, because sometimes people drop valuable albums at junky resale shops instead of selling them on eBay for a pretty penny.

"They didn't have all the Zeppelin ones, but I thought you'd appreciate some variety, y'know? But, oh my God, I had to sort through so many shitty albums to find these." Jesse spent about thirty minutes with Maggie sorting through the massive dump of records, laughing at obscure and ridiculous releases. All entirely worth it, because he managed to pick up some albums for Buck and Billy Ray too.

Saul's watching him with that "you've charmed the fuck out of me" look Jesse knows so well. "You're amazing, kid. Y'know that?"

Jesse huffs a self-deprecating sound. "Dude, you gave me two-thousand dollars."

"So? I could give anybody money or a new phone and they'd be happy. You actually put thought into this."

Jesse hadn't thought of it that way before, but he still feels embarrassingly inadequate. At least Saul's happy though, which was the whole point of their little gift exchange, so Jesse tries not to think about it too hard.

They spend the afternoon in the Papasan in Saul's bedroom, sprawled against each other and burning through the six-packs of craft beers Buck and Billy Ray gifted them before leaving for Lincoln. Saul's record player is fully functional and currently spinning through Zeppelin's "Going to California." Jesse's got the apple pie Saul made last night in his lap, which means Saul has to reach into Jesse's lap each time he wants a bite of delicious apple goodness. Which Jesse may or may not have done on purpose.

"Not a bad way to spend Christmas, huh?" Jesse asks around a mouthful of pie.

"It's definitely not the worst I've had."

Jesse wants to poke at that, but he's not going to risk dredging up bad memories. He relaxes into the couch cushion, using Saul's shoulder as a pillow. "How come this couch smells like pot?" That's been bothering him for a while. "You get the thing from some stoner off Craigslist?"

Saul shakes his head. "Yet another artifact from my, uh, golden days."

Jesse stares at him in disbelief as a laugh bubbles past his lips. "No way!" He'd suspected Saul of being a pot-head in his youth—how else would you explain the décor?—but this is an actual _admission_. Jesse's never going to stop finding this absolutely hilarious.

"Why are you so surprised? Everybody smoked pot in the seventies."

"You always seemed way too dorky to ever blaze one. I dunno, it just doesn't fit. Saul Goodman smoking pot?"

Saul reaches over and nabs a forkful of pie. "Saul Goodman probably wouldn't. But Jimmy McGill? Absolutely."

"And what about Saul McGill?"

Saul does something with his eyebrows that Jesse finds stupidly attractive. "Are you tryin' to tell me you're holding right now?"

"What if I was? Like, totally hypothetical? Would you light up for old times' sake?"

"Maybe, maybe not," Saul says with a shrug.

Jesse snorts a laugh. "You so would. Wish you'd'a told me this earlier. Could'a set you up with a nice stash."

"Because nothing says 'Merry Christmas' like a bag of weed."

Jesse smiles despite himself and spears off another bite of apple pie. "I feel like I oughta know this already, but what's your favorite Zeppelin song?"

"Would you ask a parent who their favorite child is?" Saul answers with offense. "How do you expect me to choose?"

Jesse wrinkles his nose. "It's 'Stairway to Heaven,' isn't it? God, you're a cliché."

"'Stairway to Heaven' is vastly overrated."

"So 'Kashmir' then?"

Saul actually rolls his eyes. "If you're gonna make me choose, I guess I'd say 'Ramble On.' Or 'Over the Hills and Far Away.' But, man, that's tough. I'd have an easier time picking which internal organ I could live without."

"You ever wish you were interested in the music I like?"

"No."

Jesse has no idea why he's laughing so hard at that. "Jesus, I think I'm gettin' a contact high off this fuckin' couch." He takes a deep breath, lets the aroma fill his lungs.

"Really? I didn't notice; you laugh at everything I say anyway."

"Fuck you," Jesse says affectionately, but he's not disproving Saul's point. It takes him a moment or two to stop giggling. "Hold up, have you, like, never Febreze'd this couch before?"

"'Course I have, but the smell's just kinda seeped into the cushion by this point."

"So either you smoked a shit-ton of pot back in the day—"

"I don't think that's a legitimate form of measurement."

"—Or you've been sneakin' a joint or two since you moved here."

"If this is your oh-so-subtle way of asking if I have any pot, the answer is no."

"'Cause you smoked it all." Jesse _cannot_ stop smiling.

"Why would I do that and not offer you any?"

"I dunno, you're a dick?"

"You just talked your way out of any recreational substances I may or may not acquire in the future, Pretty Boy."

Jesse settles against Saul's shoulder and wonders what he did to deserve this degree of good fortune.


	11. When the Levee Breaks

New Year's Eve finds them dogsitting again, lounging on the couch watching a _Twilight Zone_ marathon. Bark Lee's got his head in Jesse's lap, snoozing peacefully without a care in the world. Jesse's tucked against the line of Saul's body, casually sprawled against him. He likes the warmth of Saul's arm around his shoulders, the way Saul cracks jokes solely to make Jesse laugh. Never in a million years would he have imagined this could be real, that he could have something nice and safe for himself. Hell, just imagining a life free of Mr. White seemed too much to ask for.

Bark Lee covers his snout with a paw. Jesse reaches across the couch and grabs the folded throw draped over the arm. He covers the pup with the blanket, and Saul scoffs a quiet sound of amusement.

Jesse pouts at him. "What? He looked cold."

"You spoil that dog so much I'm amazed he doesn't take a seat at the table for dinner."

"And that's why he likes me best," Jesse boasts. "Also, you call him 'lard-ass.'"

"He's heavy!"

"Don't listen to him, buddy," Jesse murmurs to the sleeping dog.

Saul's mouth does that trying-not-to-smile thing.

After a moment or two of comfortable silence during a commercial break, Jesse says, "Hey, I wanna bounce a theory off you, but I don't want you thinkin' I've gone crazy."

"That's a chance you're gonna have to take."

"Seriously, just hear me out, alright?"

"Sure." Saul shifts so he's facing Jesse with the full force of his attention. "I'm all ears."

Jesse twirls a frayed thread on the blanket between his fingers. "Well, I dunno, you ever wonder why we gotta dogsit so much? I mean, I don't mind it, but it's kinda weird how they always seem to be out of town, y'know?"

Saul nods like he's urging Jesse to continue with his train of thought.

"And this is gonna sound kinda—okay, _really_—nuts, but...what if they're the guys cookin' Blue Sky?" Jesse holds his hands up as if warding off Saul's skepticism. "I know, but, like, okay, first off: they look like meth users. Y'know, like the whole biker redneck thing? That whole story about winning the lottery could be a ton of shit."

"What made you start thinkin' about this?"

"I just thought it was weird how they managed to bribe the cops. I mean"—Jesse swallows—"they didn't just get me outta jail; they got the charges dropped and made everybody forget about the whole thing. Like fuckin' wizards or somethin'."

Saul still looks very dubious about Jesse's theory, but he's not saying anything.

"What if all these 'out of town' trips are just lies to cover up a cook? Mr. White did the same thing. If Bark Lee was really carsick how would they ever take him to the vet? How did Buck get him here to begin with if he moved from someplace else?"

Saul doesn't seem convinced. Jesse realizes how bizarre this all sounds now that he's hearing it out loud. "What if they're like Gus Fring was? Some big, upstanding members of the community, and that's why the cops let me go? Or maybe the cops are in on it and that's why nobody's caught the Blue Sky cooks yet?" He flounders under Saul's silent stare of incredulity.

Saul speaks for the first time since Jesse started spouting his theory. "If they are meth manufacturers, how come they've never tried to sell to you? I mean, let's be honest here: you gettin' picked up for possession was the perfect opportunity for them."

Jesse shakes his head. "Too close to home. They wouldn't shit where they eat."

"It's a nice idea, I guess, but stuff like that doesn't happen twice in someone's lifetime."

"Jane used to talk about karma, and how, like, everybody gives off a unique kind of energy, and you attract people with that same energy."

"Yeah, it's called 'being creatures of habit.' Most people don't change their lives or their patterns. It's human nature."

"So you don't think maybe I could be attracting all this bad energy or karma or whatever?"

Saul shakes his head. "Because you're different now. You've changed. And if your energy was so bad, how come you met me?"

"Maybe you're not so good after all," Jesse says with a smirk. "I mean, Buck and Billy Ray only moved here after you did, right? Maybe you're the one attractin' all the _undesirables_."

Saul gives him a smile that makes his heart flutter. "I guess we'll never know." He gets his arm around Jesse again. "And, hey, if they did make all their money through drugs, paying off the cops wouldn't even be an option. The police would wonder where these guys came into that kind of money."

"What if they did win the lottery though? And they used the winnings to buy the lab and chemicals and shit? And if they're slippin' the drug money in and passin' it off as lottery winnings, who knows? It's not like anybody's keepin' track of all the money they spend, right?"

Saul laughs and shakes his head. "Kid, you've been watching too much TV."

"You really don't think it's weird how they got the charges dropped?"

"I didn't say that. I'm not sold on the drug theory, but I'll buy that they know how to swindle the police. Hell, they've probably racked up tons of disturbance calls from their loud music. Maybe they know which cops are more, uh, pliable to financial persuasion. It's not too outrageous to think the police might look the other way if offered enough cash."

Jesse wonders how much first-hand experience Saul has with this kind of thing. Too much, most likely.

"Sometimes people are exactly what they seem," Saul says in the wake of Jesse's contemplative silence. "And sometimes they're not. But I think you've been knee-deep in duplicity for so long that you're overdue for taking people at face value. You don't have to be paranoid all the time. I get that it's probably served you pretty well in the past, but the past is, well, the past." He fixes Jesse with a loving gaze. "You have a normal life now. Why not enjoy it instead of worrying about everything?"

Jesse would love to abandon his suspicion in favor of something resembling normalcy, but that's not in the cards. In the days following New Year's, his paranoia ratchets up to tin-foil hat levels; Jesse swears he's being followed, watched by some unseen stranger in the shadows. Not all the time, of course, but every now and then on his way home from work or during a late night smoke break, he gets a crawl of fear up his spine he can't shake. An unfamiliar car cruising down their street. Spotting a particular vehicle that seems to be tailing him. Just a general sense of unease and distrust.

Jesse thinks maybe he's cracking, that his fear's going to eat him alive and this is how it's going to end for them. He hates Mr. White for everything, for this fucking shadow on his heels, for saving his life yet simultaneously ruining it. He can barely sleep, too frightened of what he might find there when he closes his eyes. Saul is gracious and patient with him, of course, but Jesse knows he won't be that way forever. Eventually, Saul will tire of waking in the middle of the night to sobs and screams.

Jesse likes working, though, because it clears his head and gives him something to focus on. So he pulls a couple extra shifts at the garage, and if he shows up a few hours early no one gives him flack about it.

Except when Duane catches him asleep on a lunch break one evening. "Wake up, kid."

Duane's voice jerks Jesse back into consciousness. "What? What's up?"

"Dude, no offense, but you look like crap."

Jesse sits up, rubs a hand over his face. "I'm fine."

"Yeah, you're awesome. Those dark circles really work for you. And those bloodshot eyes? Real sexy." Duane's expression softens the longer he looks at Jesse. He moves in closer, lowers his voice. "You got problems at home? 'Cause, y'know, I get it, comin' here to blow off steam or get away for a while."

Jesse shakes his head. "It's not like that."

"When was the last time you slept? Excluding your little power nap just now."

"I can't sleep," Jesse mumbles.

Duane narrows his eyes. "This wouldn't be drug-related, would it?"

"No," Jesse snaps, offended by the insinuation. Duane doesn't know about Jesse's history with drug use, but it still feels like an accusation, an assumption Jesse will use again because he's just a pathetic, worthless junkie like Mr. White said.

Duane must believe him, because he doesn't press the topic. "Alright, well, go home, take some Nyquil and knock out for twelve hours or so."

Jesse nods, pushes away from the table and stands up. "Sorry."

"Don't worry about it. Take care of yourself. You good to drive?"

"I'm fine," Jesse says again, as if he might believe it himself the more he repeats it.

Jesse drives home slower than usual, in no particular hurry. It's still light out, but the sun is in its death throes, casting an ambient golden glow across the land. He switches on the radio to keep him focused. He thinks the silver Honda Accord a few car-lengths away in his rearview mirror is following him, but his brain doesn't do its best thinking when he's sleep-starved.

He turns off of the main road and sticks to the side-streets. If he's being tailed, the pursuer will follow this convoluted path right to Jesse's front door. Anyone can follow a car; it takes skill to know when to stop following.

Jesse takes the long way home, winding through four-way stops and passing meticulously-kept lawns. He risks a glance at the mirror again. Nothing. But that doesn't mean the tail didn't hang back or park in someone's driveway.

He manages to make it home without any obvious signs of surveillance. Saul's finishing up dinner over the stove when Jesse sticks his key in the front door. Saul turns around and gives him a pleasant smile. "You're home early. What's the occasion?"

Jesse shrugs, kicks his shoes off by the door. "No occasion. Just slow."

Saul goes quiet, like he can sense the lie, but leaves it alone. "Well, great, you're just in time for dinner."

"Bitchin'. I'll be right down," Jesse says as he climbs the stairs.

A hot shower does him some good, allows him to decompress and let a few tears escape. Jesse knows the best thing for him right now is a decent night's sleep, but, Christ, if he could just shut his brain off for a couple hours and keep the nightmares away... His senses feel dried-up and barely there, yet overwhelmed all at once.

Jesse comes downstairs after his shower to find Saul setting the table. Saul's still wearing that "I'm here for you, brave little soldier" smile that makes Jesse feel slightly patronized. "Feel better?"

"Yeah, terrific," Jesse says with zero enthusiasm. He approaches the table, lays his hands on the back of a chair. "What's for dinner?"

"Bratwurst with beer and mustard sauce over egg noodles." Jesse gives him a look. "I had to do something with the meat; it expires tomorrow."

Jesse makes a face.

"Hey, it's still good. I taste-tested it," Saul says with offense. "You wanna go next door and get us a couple beers?"

"Doesn't this have beer in it?"

"Not enough." Hard to argue with that, though Jesse knows the real reason Saul's intent on getting him drunk; alcohol makes Jesse sleepy. "Go on, grab us a couple bottles while I finish up here."

Jesse does as he's asked, rolling his eyes like Saul's being difficult.

The cold night air bites at his skin when he opens the door. He wraps his arms around himself, ducks around the tree in the front yard, and follows the sidewalk to the house on the other side of the picket fence. He can hear Buck and Billy Ray talking about something, their voices wafting through the half-open living room window.

Bark Lee's tethered to the doghouse in the backyard, watching Jesse approach the front door. Jesse stops and smiles at the mutt. He takes a couple steps in Bark Lee's direction, and that's when he hears Buck say, "Pinkman."

Jesse freezes mid-step. The name turns to stone in his chest and drops down some internal mineshaft. His heart flutters a panicked flail against his ribs.

"You're just thinkin' crazy," Billy Ray says. "There's no way."

"Tell me that don't look and sound like him."

Jesse hurries to the side of the house to stay out of sight. He presses his back against the structure, edges himself closer to the window. Bark Lee just watches him, head tilted in curiousity. Jesse lifts a finger to his lips to shush the dog in case he starts barking.

"If it's him," Buck's saying, "he could blow this case wide open. Saul too."

Jesse covers his mouth to smother the gasp that bubbles out.

"Saul?" Billy Ray scoffs. "What about 'im?"

"Pinkman mentions a Saul Goodman on the tape. Lawyer, right? Our Saul? Paralegal. The apple don't fall too far from the tree...or whatever."

The gallop of Jesse's heartbeat pounds in his ears. His stomach plummets in realization. _The tape._ The only tape where Jesse mentions Saul Goodman is the confession tape he made for Hank Schrader right before everything went to hell.

How the fuck did these two get ahold of that?

Jesse shifts his weight, just enough to crawl on all fours underneath the windowsill. Because as much as every word pushes him toward a breakdown, he has to hear more.

"C'mon," Buck continues, "this guy who looks exactly like Aaron also knows somebody named Saul who works in the legal division? There's coincidences, and then there's shit that just don't happen accidentally."

Jesse clutches at his chest and tries to remember how to breathe, but the world's spinning beneath him and there's no way he's slowing it down. Bark Lee, as if sensing Jesse's panic, hunkers down onto all fours and lays his head on his front paws.

"The timestamp on the tape is about six months from when he showed up here," Billy Ray says. "So what was he doin'?"

"I don't know, but he's got the same tattoo on his arm that Aaron does."

Jesse stops breathing, as if a blade has punctured his lungs.

"That's a hell of a stretch."

"On its own? Absolutely," Buck says. "But when you add it all up?" There's a brief silence, possibly while Buck takes a drink. "Aaron told me once that Saul helped him through some problems. Ten bucks says it was a drug habit. Maybe that's as far as it goes, but somethin' tells me those two aren't who they say they are."

A new horrifying realization hits Jesse like a two-by-four and sends him reeling: Buck and Billy Ray are undercover cops. Undercover cops who know Jesse and Saul's true identities.

"His prints are still on file at the station," Buck continues. "First thing tomorrow, I'm gonna run 'em against Pinkman's."

Jesse's heart feels like it's going to burst out of his chest. When Buck matches those prints, they'll lock Jesse up and throw away the key. They won't listen. He's an accomplice in building Heisenberg's empire, and Buck and Billy Ray have his taped confession in their hands. This one would be a slam dunk.

And, oh God, what about Saul? The only thing that terrifies Jesse more than his own incarceration is what might happen to Saul if he were caught.

Jesse's legs shake as he crawls out from underneath the window. He scrambles to his feet and hurries away. His footsteps sound thunderous in his own ears. His shallow, rapid breaths suck the air out of his lungs pretty quickly, winding him and making his muscles burn. HiHe feels like someone might spring out of the shadows and grab him. A bug flies in front of his face, and Jesse nearly trips over his own feet.

He stumbles on the steps to the front porch, sweaty hands grappling with the doorknob until it gives way. Jesse shuts the door behind him, twists the lock for good measure, and slumps against the wood. Through the cloak of adrenaline and panic, he barely registers Saul rushing to him and kneeling at his side until he hears his voice. "Jesse? Hey, hey, look at me. Just breathe, alright? You're okay."

Jesse can't even manage the breath to say that they're not okay, that the world is spinning out of control and falling apart and they need to _leave now_, because his lungs won't stop spasming long enough for him to speak. He gulps for air, his skin suddenly freezing. He tries to reach out for Saul, but his hands won't stop shaking. If he could just get this one thing under control...

Saul lays a hand on Jesse's tattooed arm, and Jesse focuses on the heat of his hand, the familiar warmth of another person. He manages to dig his fingers into Saul's t-shirt and pull. Saul goes willingly, lets Jesse bury his face in his shoulder and hiccup sobs into his shirt. Saul's other hand wraps around the back of Jesse's head. Jesse forces himself to breathe, exhales in a steady shake of air, inhales slow and deep. Then again. And again. Saul rubs his back, murmuring soft words of reassurance at his ear.

Jesse tries to ignore the cold, suffocating spread of fear, just focuses on Saul's voice and warmth and touch. But that only reminds him of how fragile and fleeting it all is, and he sobs harder, losing the small semblance of control he'd managed to gain.

He squeezes his eyes shut, curls his fingers in Saul's shirt. Shit like this is why Saul looks at him like one wrong move will shatter Jesse and he'll never be put back together properly. He needs to get a fucking grip and _think_.

Saul's hand slides to the curve of Jesse's cheek, and it's so familiar and comforting that it gives Jesse a moment of clarity, of control, something he can anchor himself to. "It's okay, Jesse," Saul says. "Whatever it is, we'll get through it together. I promise."

Jesse takes a deep breath, lets the scent of him fill his lungs. He focuses on warm hands and gentle words, and the adrenaline begins to ebb. His breathing slows to a calmer rhythm, his wet eyes blinking against the damp cotton of Saul's shirt.

"There, see? You're okay," Saul says, still rubbing his back. "I'm here. Everything's gonna be fine."

Jesse breaks away and leans against the door, his muscles loose and jittery. He wipes his wet face with a shaky, clammy hand, smearing salty tears over his cheeks. Saul kisses Jesse's forehead and asks, "Do you think you could talk to me about it?"

Jesse swallows back the sobs building in his throat, blinks away cloudy tears. Looking at the focus of his world, he can't imagine losing Saul now. Not after living the life they've built for themselves, the soft touches and kisses that put Jesse's broken pieces back together, the way Saul wakes him up by cuddling closer and calling him "Pretty Boy." No, he just _can't_.

When Jesse feels his voice won't betray him, he says, "Buck and Billy Ray—they know about us."

It takes Saul a moment to register the subtext in Jesse's words. His brow creases. "How?"

"I think—I think they're undercover cops," Jesse stammers. "They know who we are. They know we're involved with the Heisenberg case."

Saul lays a hand on Jesse's shoulder, trying to steer him in the right direction. "How? What'd you see?"

"I heard them talking. They have the tape."

"What tape?"

Jesse rubs a hand over his mouth. "Before..." He trails off, shaking his head, but Saul hears the unspoken words there. "I tried working with Mr. White's brother-in-law to take him down. So I did a confession tape where I told him everything."

"My name didn't come up in there, did it?"

Jesse glances away. He doesn't say anything, but he doesn't need to. Guilt leaks from his every pore.

Saul heaves a deep sigh. "Jeez, kid..."

"I'm sorry," Jesse whimpers, his lower lip trembling. He feels his chest tighten again. Saul lifts a hand. Jesse flinches and shuts his eyes, waiting for the impact. But Saul just cups his hand around Jesse's face with the gentlest pressure, as if his skin's made of porcelain. A tear rolls down Jesse's cheek. Saul brushes it away with his thumb.

"They wouldn't have that tape if they weren't cops, would they?" Saul asks, putting Jesse on track again.

Jesse shakes his head. "They said something about a case, like they're investigating us."

"But they don't have any actual, hard evidence that we're not who we say we are, do they?"

Jesse shrugs. "I don't know. I don't think so. Just the tape and my prints. So you're still safe, probably."

"But not for long," Saul mumbles. He slides his hand from Jesse's face to the slope of his neck, fingers pushing into the taut skin between his shoulder blades.

"Buck said he was gonna match the prints up tomorrow. That's—that's enough for a warrant, right?"

"Yeah."

Jesse's voice breaks when he chokes out, "God, what the hell are we gonna do?"

Saul tugs him closer, presses another kiss to his forehead. "Let's just take a step back and look at this rationally, alright? We know they didn't come here for you, because you were off in God-knows-where when they showed up. Me? If they suspected me for anything they would'a made their move a long time ago. So the reason they're here has to be something else entirely."

"Whatever it is, it's nothing compared to us," Jesse says, tears streaming down his cheeks.

"And there, young master Pinkman, is the silver lining. If they bring this in, it'll be a disaster for them. Two of the players in the Heisenberg case? Right under their nose for months. Hell, we were their drinking buddies. The minute they walk in with this, they lose their jobs. There's nothing to gain, and they know it."

"So how come they have the tape in the first place?"

"Maybe they're lookin' into the Heisenberg case. Blue Sky's still on the streets; they could be learning from the past so they're not, uh, doomed to repeat it, as the saying goes."

Jesse hadn't considered that possibility, too wrapped up in worst-case scenarios. Saul has an almost uncanny ability to calm Jesse down and help him see straight when his brain's swirling with emotion.

Saul keeps going, fully immersed in the lawyer role now. "If they were really gunning for you, they would've already matched those prints and you'd be in lockup right now. My best guess? They don't wanna know. Just a couple clicks through A.F.I.S and they'd have their answer. But they're stalling. Why?"

Jesse shrugs. "Billy Ray didn't sound like he believed it. It's like he was tryin' to talk some sense into Buck."

Saul thinks about that. "Y'know, if they're here investigating Blue Sky, you got somethin' to trade. 'You give me immunity, I give you information.' You know the drill."

"Okay, that's—that's not so bad," Jesse says, licking his lips.

But then Saul's calming effect fails Jesse miserably: "What's on that tape, kid? I can see them turning the other cheek over the drugs. But, jeez, murder? That's gonna be a tough sell."

Jesse feels a cold hand reach into his chest and squeeze. The ghost of Gale Boetticher still haunts him even now. His hands reach for Saul again, fingers clutching at his shirt, and he buries his face in Saul's shoulder, choked sobs escaping through his teeth. Saul deserves this new life, of course, but Jesse wanted to share it with him.

Jesse's hands ball into fists, and Saul holds him in his arms. "It's gonna be okay, Jesse. I promise. I will find you a way through this."

For the first time, Jesse isn't so sure about that.


	12. In My Time Of Dying

Saul wakes up the next morning curled alongside Jesse. After dinner, Saul helped Jesse into bed and poured him a capful of Nyquil to get the kid to sleep. He stayed awake for a bit after Jesse finally succumbed to slumber, waiting for the nightmares to resurface. But Jesse slept soundly, perhaps too exhausted to dream. For the best, Saul thinks, because he's gonna need to be running on all cylinders today.

Jesse is still asleep, breathing calm and hot against Saul's skin; Saul doesn't want to stir and ruin this quiet little moment where everything is perfect and impermeable. Jesse's tucked against the line of Saul's body, arms looped around him and his face burrowed in the space between Saul's chin and chest. Saul has one arm latched around Jesse's waist to keep him close, as if someone might come and tear him away.

No one's ever loved anyone like Saul loves Jesse Pinkman. He feels it in his bones, knows deep in his soul that this is where he belongs. To lose Jesse now... Saul can't even think about it.

Jesse's hand slides across Saul's back, and he tips his head a bit. Saul presses his mouth to the fuzz of Jesse's hair. "Morning, Pretty Boy." Jesse just holds him tighter, his hands squeezing into fists over Saul's skin as he burrows nearer. "You sleep okay?"

Jesse murmurs something that sounds like a yes.

"You look better," Saul says, trying to be uplifting. "Got more color."

He can feel the heat of Jesse's breath at his throat. Jesse's eyes are closed.

"You want a couple more hours?"

"I wanna be with you," Jesse mumbles, his voice cracked with sleep.

Saul holds him closer and trails kisses over the bristly line of his jaw. He tugs the neck of Jesse's t-shirt down a bit so he can kiss his freckled shoulder. All the tension in Jesse's body melts away under Saul's affection.

"We should just—we should just do it, y'know?" Jesse says. "Go somewhere else. Start over."

"Not 'til we know what they want from us."

Jesse gazes at him with wounded, pleading eyes. "They're cops, Saul. They're not just gonna let this go." He buries his face in Saul's chest again and hugs him close.

"Jesse, listen to me. As long as I'm around, nothing bad is gonna happen to you, alright? You gotta trust me."

"It's everyone else I don't trust."

Hard to argue with that. But Saul thinks it won't be easy for Buck and Billy Ray to switch gears and see them as criminals. You share your life with somebody long enough and they become a part of you. Even in the face of irrefutable evidence, the mind plays tricks, tries to convince itself there's something else at play. When you care about someone, logic goes out the window completely.

Neither of them say anything for a while. They spend the better part of an hour just holding each other and sharing soft, tender touches. Saul doesn't know what's going to happen to them next, but right now he just needs the peace of being here with Jesse.

They're in the kitchen finishing up breakfast when the knock sounds on the front door. Jesse freezes in his chair, his skin impossibly pale. Even now, even when fear's got his heart in a vise grip, Saul can't help but notice how goddamn blue Jesse's eyes are.

Saul rises from his seat and moves for the door. He checks the peephole. Buck and Billy Ray stand on the other side, hands shoved into pockets like they're totally casual. Saul can't see any handcuffs or guns or even a warrant. There's no police cruiser in the driveway or parked on the street. This might not be official police business. The trump card here is they don't know Saul and Jesse are onto them. Best to keep it that way.

Saul opens the door and forces up a pleasant smile. "Well, good morning! What's the occasion?"

"No occasion," Buck says, returning the pleasantry. "Just figured we'd stop by for a little chat between friends." Jesse swallows thickly and pushes away from the table, busying himself with the dishes in the sink. "Nothin' wrong with that, is there?"

"'Course not. Chat away." Saul heads into the kitchen toward Jesse, because if they pick up on the way Jesse's hands are shaking... He comes up behind Jesse and lays his hands over Jesse's own. Jesse startles at the touch, and Saul nibbles at his earlobe. Then he whispers, his mouth at Jesse's ear, "They don't have a warrant. There's no cuffs, no police cruiser. I don't think they're here to arrest you. Maybe they do just wanna talk."

Jesse's chest shudders as his lungs try to take in air. He reaches for a knife in the sink, fingers grasping around the handle, but Saul stops him with a gentle hand.

Another kiss. "I promised you, remember? Trust me, Jesse." Saul hopes this display might make Buck and Billy Ray's suspicion waver; how could they tear apart two people so in love who want nothing more than to spend their lives together?

Buck clears his throat. "Teacher and student, huh? What a match. You teach science, Saul? Naw, it was somethin' else. History, wasn't it? I only ask 'cause I was curious where Aaron picked up all that science shit he spouted off to Duane."

Jesse goes still. Saul really hopes Jesse doesn't have a panic attack here, because there's no way they're talking their way out of that.

"He was a pretty good student all around," Saul says.

"That so?" Buck asks. Billy Ray looks uncomfortable. "How come you ain't in college, Aaron? You're a smart kid. Could'a got in someplace for sure."

Jesse feigns casual, shrugging his shoulders. He risks a quick glance at the two men. "Just 'cause I was good in school didn't mean I liked it." He forces out a chuckle.

"And you," Buck says, focusing on Saul now. "Goin' from a teacher to a paralegal. How's that happen?"

Saul gives a nervous laugh. "You do somethin' long enough and you get tired of it. C'mon, fellas, people change jobs all the time."

"Y'all got any beer?" Billy Ray asks, perhaps trying to lighten the mood. "I'm parched."

But Buck ignores him, asks Jesse, "Aaron, where'd you say you got those scars again?"

Saul slips into lawyer mode, stepping between them and Jesse to use himself as a barrier. "Alright, guys, I gotta say, this is starting to sound like a full-fledged, suspectlike interrogation."

Buck's eyes go comically wide, like he's appalled by the accusation. "What? Naw, we're just havin' a friendly chat."

"Awful specific questions for a friendly chat. In fact, I might categorize all this as, uh, unwarranted persecution."

"You got a real guilty conscience then."

Jesse gulps.

Saul narrows his eyes. "You guys got a thing for him? I mean, I can't really blame you—look at the kid—but as you can see, he's not interested."

"Nah, we don't want nothin' to do with Aaron—or is it _Jesse_?"

Jesse's heart stops in his chest as the world shrinks around him.

"We know everything you did, Jesse, 'cause you told us. That little tape you made with Schrader? Well, we believe ya, unless you're a total sociopath. You seemed real convincing."

"I don't know what you're talkin' about," Jesse says, but his voice quakes like a fault line.

Buck spreads his hands. "Alright, you can play it that way. But I wonder what might happen if somebody matched your prints on file with the Omaha PD to the prints of one Jesse Pinkman from Albuquerque, New Mexico." Buck moves closer, and Jesse backs away. "You know what else those prints'll match? A couple sets of fingerprints from a compound down in Albuquerque. Cops found a big ol' meth lab there. They also found one Walter White a.k.a. Heisenberg. You remember him, don't ya? The Bonnie to your Clyde?"

The name sends a shiver down Jesse's spine. He whimpers and scrubs a hand over his face. His lungs spasm, gasping for air in frantic breaths as his body goes jittery. Saul rushes to his side and scoops him up in his arms, lets him bury his face in Saul's shoulder while he sobs.

"Hey, hey, it's okay, kid, c'mon," Saul murmurs, rubbing circles over his back.

Jesse cries harder and claws at Saul's shirt. The fairy tale is over. Their happy, promising future is gone. He ran as hard and as long as he could, but he couldn't outrun the shadow of Walter White.

In the end, he'd always known that.

Jesse swallows thickly, terror closing up his throat and making it hard to breathe. But he manages to sputter out, "I—I need a lawyer."

"Well, how convenient that you shacked up with one," Buck says, looking at Saul. "Ain't that right, Saul Goodman?"

Saul's eyes glimmer with fury, akin to how Mr. White used to look when someone threatened Jesse's life. Jesse feels a pang of fear.

"Well, are you gonna arrest us?" Saul asks. "I mean, if you're so sure we're the criminals you think we are. You presented all this in a neat little package to a judge, and he signed off on it?" Buck and Billy Ray say nothing. Saul feigns a gasp. "Oh, you mean you _didn't_ get a warrant?" He chuckles. "Forgive me, my law's a little rusty, but I think that definitely falls under the heading of _illegal_. Now if you wanna be up to your ears in civil suits and TROs, hey, it's a free country, but my guess is you've got better things to do than harass your neighbors."

"We're not here to arrest anyone," Billy Ray says. "We just wanna know what happened."

"I thought you had some sort of confession tape," Saul interjects. "Which, by the way, I ought to see if you're claiming it as _evidence_ against my client."

Billy Ray breathes out a sigh through his nose, shakes his head. "Saul, you don't wanna see that."

"I'm sure I don't, but it sounds pretty important. Gotta know what I'm up against, right?"

Billy Ray gives him a pained look. "You're sure?"

This tape could contain things Jesse's never told him. To breach Jesse's trust like this...

"No!" Jesse begs in an agonized wail. "No, you can't..." The rest of his plea catches in his throat.

Saul looks at him in anguish. "I have to, kid. I can't help you if I don't have all the facts."

Jesse whimpers, then he can't see Saul anymore through the blur of tears in his eyes.

After a moment of silence that feels like a neverending stretch of forever, Buck says, "Alright, come on over and I'll show ya."

Jesse watches them as they walk past. "You're comin' back, right?" His eyes are pleading, glistening with tears.

"'Course, kid. I always come for you." The double entendre sets Jesse at ease, if even only a little. Billy Ray opts to stay with Jesse, and Saul follows Buck out the door. "Be good," Saul says as the door shuts behind him.

* * *

Jesse blows through a couple cigarettes from his safety pack while Saul's next door. He doesn't bother going outside to smoke; he can barely stand on his shaky legs. Dread gnaws a hole in his gut and makes him nauseous. He scrubs a hand over his face, takes a drag off the cigarette whenever he feels the panic start to build. The nicotine calms him and helps him think a little more clearly.

Billy Ray's sitting across from him in the recliner, leaning forward like he's about to tell Jesse some life-altering secret. "Saul doesn't know what's on that tape, does he?" he asks softly.

Jesse shakes his head. "I don't think so. I don't know what Mr. White told him. Probably nothing...but I bet he knew some of it." Yeah, that's pretty much admitting he's not some clean-cut innocent from Alaska, but it's not like they wouldn't have figured it out anyway. Matching those fingerprints would seal the final nail in his coffin.

Jesse hiccups for air, puffing on the cigarette to ground himself. He wipes his leaky eyes with his hand. Saul might have put a couple of the pieces together about Jesse's involvement in things, but he certainly doesn't know how deep the rabbit hole goes. How much Mr. White manipulated Jesse into doing things that haunt him even now. How Jesse was so stupidly naïve and stubborn and maybe a little in love with that asshole Mr. White.

Saul's going to know everything on that tape, and Jesse's ghosts will haunt him too.

"He won't stay," Jesse whimpers out, wrapping his arms around himself like he's cold. "I don't blame him..." He looks at Billy Ray. "You saw it, right? Could you still love somebody after all that?"

Billy Ray stares down at his hands. "My uncle Ellis died when I was a kid. He wasn't old or nothin', so I was surprised, y'know, that somethin' happened. But nobody would talk about how he died. All they said was 'it was an accident.' I figure it must'a been real bad, 'cause the funeral was a closed casket."

Jesse rubs his arm, takes a long drag off the cigarette.

"But I was watchin' all the friends and family, and they didn't seem too"—Billy Ray searches for the word—"surprised about it. Like maybe he had been sick for a while. I was just a kid, so 'course I didn't know nothin'. So the years went on, and when I got to college one year, I did a paper on the Vietnam War, 'cause Ellis and a couple other guys I knew from family reunions had been in it. Figured it'd be an easy grade." He wipes his mouth with a hand, chuckles out a humorless, bleak sound and looks straight at Jesse. "You ever hear of the My Lai Massacre?"

Jesse feels his blood run cold.

"It was 1968. Innocent people: killed, maimed, tortured, worse, at the hands of a US platoon. Three to five hundred unarmed civilians, mostly women, children, senior citizens. Only the lieutenant who led the platoon was convicted, but twenty-six other soldiers were charged."

Jesse sees where this is heading. "And Ellis... He was one of 'em?"

Billy Ray nods. "So outta morbid curiousity, I looked up his obituary. It was no accident." He makes a gun with his thumb and index finger, places the barrel to his temple and clicks the trigger.

Jesse breathes out a shudder of smoke.

"I asked a couple'a family members who served in 'Nam, and they said Ellis shared his pain with them. He claimed mob mentality and pressure from the higher-ups turned him into a different person, someone he didn't even recognize. I don't know if he ever told them everything, but he said enough, probably 'cause they were war buddies, y'know. But the rest of us, we never knew. Back then, they called it post-Vietnam syndrome, but nowadays you might know it better as PTSD."

Jesse stares at the skeleton of ash growing at the end of his cigarette.

"I guess it would'a been easy to feel angry, betrayed, disgusted by what he did," Billy Ray says, "but mostly I just felt sad. Sadness for a man who couldn't live with what he'd done and thought the only way out was a bullet in his head. Sadness for all the people he'd hurt and everybody left to deal with it."

Jesse nods like he understands, because he'd thought about taking that route before. The nightmares, the lack of purpose and direction, the loss of everyone he loved... It all seemed overwhelming and impossible to bear, at least until Saul came along and filled his voids with something better.

He sighs and stubs out his cigarette in the ashtray on the coffee table. Jesse stares at the swirls in the wood. How many times did he share a pizza with Saul on this table and kick his feet up while they watched a movie together? And now they'll never get to do that again...

"This wasn't s'posed to happen," Jesse whimpers out, rubbing the back of his neck with his hands. "I just—I just wanted to start over and have a family..."

"And you deserve that," Billy Ray says, and it doesn't sound patronizing in the least. "I hate that man for what he did to you. I wish he had lived, only so we could slap the cuffs on him and bring him to justice. It's not fair what happened to you, Aaron."

Jesse sniffles.

"You prefer Aaron or Jesse?"

Jesse scoffs a harsh, bitter sound. "Are you s'posed to be the good cop?"

Billy Ray looks wounded. "There's no Good Cop, Bad Cop here. Just friends who care about you. Saul too. And I promise, Saul ain't gonna love you any less than he did when he walked outta here."

Jesse prays that he's right.

It feels like years have passed by the time the front door creaks open. Saul steps inside. His skin looks a shade or two paler than before. Jesse stands up, his heart seizing in his chest. Buck trails in behind Saul through the doorway, but Jesse barely notices.

Saul moves closer and stares into Jesse's eyes. Jesse fights the instinct to glance away, because it feels like Saul can hear his every thought and hope and dream, can fathom him inside and out. His eyes are damp with tears, his brow creased as if he's seeing Jesse for the first time.

"Do you—do you still..." Jesse manages before the words just stop in his throat.

Saul gets his arms around Jesse's waist and wraps him in a crushing embrace. He buries his face in Jesse's shoulder. Damp spots bloom from Saul's eyes onto Jesse's t-shirt. His hands curl into fists around the fabric, as if Jesse might float away if he lets go. There's a slight, shuddery quake to Saul's shoulders that Jesse pretends not to notice.

"No one will ever hurt you again," Saul murmurs at his ear. "I swear on my life, I will keep you safe."

"You still want me?" Jesse says in an impossibly tiny voice.

"I always will, kid." Saul holds on tight and doesn't let go until a few moments later. He takes a deep breath to steady himself, and Jesse takes Saul's hands in his own, squeezing them for reassurance.

Saul looks at Buck, while Jesse focuses on his new-found ally Billy Ray. "So, now what?" Saul asks. "You gonna throw the book at the kid for, what, exactly? Being abused and manipulated? Usually it's the abuser who gets the silver bracelets, but since he's rotting in the ground I guess you'll take what you can get, huh? Great police work." There's a bite to Saul's words, hostility and bitterness that wasn't there before.

Buck holds up his hands as if warding off the verbal attack. "We're not here to disrupt your lives. We think maybe Jesse—or Aaron, I guess—can help us with another case."

That slows them both down a bit. Jesse blinks, tries to process the information. "What? How?"

Saul lays a soothing hand on Jesse's lower back. "Sounds like you're trying to cut a deal, boys. You know how those work, right? He gives you information, and you make all this go away."

"What's the case?" Jesse says.

Billy Ray takes that one. "Blue Sky's still on the market. Manufactured right here in Omaha."

"And you think he has something to do with that?" Saul asks. "He showed up here after you guys did. How does that even make sense?"

"We don't think he's involved. We think he can help us find whoever's makin' it."

"I'm sorry, speaking as his lawyer, I'm still not hearing an offer that would make my client want to cooperate with you," Saul says. "And speaking as his boyfriend, I can't say I trust you two not to hold his nuts to the fire if you don't get your guy."

"Well, _as his lawyer_, surely you know that's how these sorts'a deals work," Buck says. "We're your friends, Saul. You're gonna have to trust us."

Saul tilts his head. "Have you ever been married?"

"What's that got to do with anything?"

"Maybe the better question is: when you wake up, who's the first person you think about? Because when you're in love with someone, and I mean the whole 'til-death-do-us-part, for-worse-and-for-better type deal, that person is always your first priority. You protect them, no matter what. You risk anything and everything to keep them safe. So, no, when it comes to him I don't trust you at all."

Jesse wipes his newly-wet eyes. All of the tragedy caused by that damn blue meth. If this is a chance to right some of the wrongs he had a hand in... Some way to atone for Gale Boetticher, Jane Margolis, Drew Sharp, and all the others who had to fall so Mr. White could rise.

"I'll help you," Jesse croaks, his voice wrecked to hell.

Saul might actually gasp out loud.

"But you gotta promise me something."

Buck asks, "What's that?" Mr. Skeptic.

"You leave Saul alone. No matter what. Alright?" Jesse says, the words cracking and breaking in his throat. "You come after him, you don't have me."

Buck and Billy Ray exchange a glance. "Sit down. Let's talk."

* * *

"What we know so far is some talented tweaker's cookin' Blue Sky here," Buck says.

Jesse shrugs like he's missing something. "So? Just arrest 'em."

"We don't know who the manufacturer is. The dealers are just street-level, and they don't deal in large enough quantities to make the arrest worthwhile. They'd never turn on their supplier when the crime ain't even a felony."

"Sounds like you got precisely Jack and Shit," Saul says.

"You wanna find these guys?" Jesse says. "It's all in the cook: are they usin' pseudo or P2P and methylamine?"

"Our lab guys broke down the crystal you were collared with," Buck says. "Some was made with pseudo, some was done through reductive amination. That was the first P2P cook we've seen in this case."

Jesse scratches his chin. "Maybe they got impatient smurfin' pseudo."

"Or they're cookin' larger-scale quantities." The tight restrictions on pseudoephedrine make it a highly improbable ingredient for a lab intent on mass production.

"You've checked the DEA watch list for any suspicious activity on the methylamine front?"

"Nothin' that raises any red flags," Billy Ray says. "Just your typical places: universities, research labs—"

That makes Jesse pull up. "Universities?"

"You know somethin'?"

"One of the guys who tried to sell to me... He showed up a while back at the shop," Jesse says. "I looked him up on Facebook. He goes to the University of Nebraska Omaha."

"If he's gettin' his chemicals through the university's supply, he can't be doin' this alone. There's too many hoops to jump through, too much paperwork that needs approval before the order even gets into the supplier's system," Billy Ray says.

"He could be payin' 'em off to look the other way."

Buck strokes his beard. "This guy got a name?"

"Brad Donovan. His phone number's in our files. I could call him, set up a meet or somethin'."

"You think he'd go for that? The guy handed you the drugs and ran away. He sounds jumpier than a virgin at a prison rodeo."

Jesse makes a face. Buck's nothing if not colorful.

"If I can put in my two cents," Saul interjects, "he also sounds like a complete amateur as far as the drug business is concerned. You don't make any money handing your product over to the first guy who looks at you funny. You want my advice? Make him an offer he can't refuse."

Jesse feels a stab of pain in his chest. "That won't get you guys anywhere. He's not gonna sell in bulk to strangers. Not if he's that skittish. You gotta be reputable. Trustworthy."

Buck's expression shifts into something Jesse can't read. "What if... You think he'd consider Heisenberg reputable or trustworthy?"

"Who cares? Guy's dead."

"Not entirely. You"—he points a meaty finger at Jesse—"know the recipe. You might as well be Heisenberg 2.0." Jesse winces at the accusation. "What if you could build a reputation with this guy by pretending to be Heisenberg?"

Saul makes a buzzing sound. "Wrong. Let me spell it out for you: we're not throwing Jesse into a lion's den. The deal was he'd give you guys information you could use, not that you could use _him_."

"It's a solid plan," Buck argues. "The kid knows his chemistry. He knows the ins and outs of the Heisenberg case in a way we never will. He could earn this guy's trust."

"And then what?"

"Cook with him, get him comfortable. Then we set up a sting where Jesse suggests they sell in bulk to a reputable buyer—one of our agents—and once they make the sale, bam. Case closed."

Saul's mouth twists into something angry that Jesse's rarely seen before. "You want him to do _your_ job, basically. Christ, do you even—do you even know what happened to him in those six months after that tape was made? Because what you're suggesting—there's too many risks involved. He could relapse"—Saul lays a hand over Jesse's tattooed arm—"no offense. The guy could get spooked and move his base of operations." Saul throws a hand out. "And, hey, Jesse could be killed!"

"We have no reason to believe he's in any danger of violence."

"Yeah, well, forgive me if I don't take your word for it." Saul squeezes Jesse's wrist possessively. "Screw the deal." He rises to get up, but Buck stops him.

"Your head's on the chopping block here too, Goodman. Might be in your best interests to give this a lil' more consideration."

Jesse looks at Saul. "It makes sense," he says, and, off Saul's agonized expression, "C'mon, this isn't my first rodeo. Like he said, I know the recipe and everything."

Saul exhales angrily through his nose. "Can I have a word, please?" He pushes away from the table and leads Jesse into the laundry room. Saul shuts the door to keep their conversation relatively private. "I'm gonna go on record here and say this is a terrible idea!"

"Is that Saul the Lawyer or Saul the Boyfriend talkin'?"

"Both! Jesse, if you do this, you're going right back to the life you left behind—presumably for good. I thought you said this"—Saul gestures to the room in a way that's supposed to mean something—"was the life you wanted."

"Maybe I gotta do this to keep what we have here."

Saul's face crumbles under the weight of his words. "If this is all to protect me—"

"No. I mean, that's a hell of a bonus, but the plan makes sense. I've done this before with Fring and Mike. We went to Mexico. I cooked for the cartel, yo. This is nothin'."

"You don't know that for sure."

Jesse tilts his head. "Why do you have such a hard-on about this?"

Saul blinks a few times too many. "Because I can't lose you," he says, his voice shaky. "I won't put you in harm's way or use you to save my own ass. I can't—I won't be like him, Jesse."

Jesse gasps. "You are nothin' like Mr. White." He moves closer and takes Saul's hands in his own. "Saul, I wanna do this. I gotta try to make up for all the shit I did with him."

"You don't have to make up for anything," Saul pleads, and Jesse thinks he sees tears flooding his eyes. "He manipulated you, Jesse. The things he did... None of that's on you."

Jesse shakes his head. Mr. White might have used him, but Jesse kept coming back for more. There were plenty of times he could have—should have—stayed away for good, but instead he ran right back to what he knew best. And he hates himself for it every day.

Jesse squeezes Saul's hands with the slightest pressure. "It'll be okay, I promise."

Saul opens his mouth, closes it, perhaps seeing something on Jesse's face that quells his argument. "Don't make me have to live without you, kid." His thumbs glide over Jesse's wrist bones.

Jesse's always loved the way Saul looks at him like there's never been a more spectacular thing on this earth. But seeing him now all teary-eyed and pleading is life-altering like nothing else, because that look of adoration is still there. Saul learned that Jesse's done horrible things that would make most people recoil in horror. But he reacted with unfaltering, unconditional love.

The corner of Jesse's mouth turns up into a sad half-smile, making his scars twitch. "You still love me," he marvels. Saul, stripped of pretense and wit, is a fragile heart, clinging dearly to the one thing keeping him alive.

They are so much alike, Jesse realizes.

Saul nods weakly, his mouth trembling a bit when he bites down on words he wanted to say. He squeezes his eyes shut. Saul turns his head away. Jesse sees a tear roll down his cheek, and he brushes the wetness away with his fingers.

"Look at all the shit I've lived through," Jesse says, locking his gaze with Saul's. "This is nothing."

"Alright, let's say, best case scenario: you don't die. But it's gonna change you, Jesse. Or put you right back where you were."

"Why would I ever go back when I'm happy here? People don't start slingin' drugs because of the great health plan, yo. It's 'cause they have to. And I don't have to anymore. I got a future." He smiles despite himself. "I got you. And I won't use again 'cause I know it ain't gonna make things better." He holds Saul's gaze for a long moment. "Trust me. I'm solid."

Saul looks him over and eventually nods. "I trust you."


	13. Trouble in Mind

Duane gives Jesse the judgemental big-brother look when he shows up at the garage. "Whoa, dude, I thought I told you to take a nap or two."

"I did."

Duane makes a face. "Go home and take another. You look like somethin' out of a Romero flick."

Duane can't send him home now, not today, not when Jesse desperately needs access to the records on that computer. "Nah, I'm good, honest."

"You sure?" He watches Jesse for a long moment. Jesse feels his stomach tumble. "If you fall asleep again, I'm kickin' your ass."

Duane lets him stay, but he must have told Maggie to keep an eye on Jesse, because she's been shadowing him all afternoon. If Jesse could only shake her for a few minutes, just enough time to pull up that damn record and write the number down...

Would she believe him if he told her the truth? Jesse's not sure. On a normal day? Probably. But not when he looks strung-out and dead on his feet. She'd dismiss his story as the ramblings of a sleep-starved mind. Then her and Duane both would watch him a little more carefully, making sure he didn't get near that damn computer.

So, honesty? Probably not the best policy here.

"Are you and Saul having...problems?" Maggie asks him in a quiet voice during a late afternoon lull.

"What? No. No way. I just—I've had a rough couple'a nights." Not entirely a lie.

Maggie looks like she believes him, but she's got a bit of skepticism, as if she suspects he's holding something back. But she doesn't push.

Jesse finally gets his chance when Maggie disappears into the break room later that evening. He's guessing she's on a quick bathroom break. Duane's rolled underneath his latest hobby car.

Now or never.

Jesse sneaks onto the computer and brings up Brad Donovan's records. Time to put that phone number to good use. He writes down the digits on a nearby sticky note and shoves the piece of paper into his pocket. His hands feel ridiculously sweaty. He can't believe he's doing this. Just two days ago he had a normal life; it wasn't greeting-card perfect, but it was a good start. Now he's ready to plunge headfirst into the drug business again.

Mr. White's insults spring to mind: pathetic junkie, drug addict, junkie imbecile... But what if Mr. White wasn't talking about the weed or the meth or even the heroin? Maybe Jesse's real addiction is self-destruction. Directing all that self-loathing inward, too cowardly or empathetic to inflict it on anyone else. Filling his body with drugs, destroying his relationships with his parents and Andrea and everyone who genuinely cared about him, and now this, choosing to delve into a world he swore he'd stay away from.

Jesse clicks out of the folder just as Maggie opens the door.

Buck and Billy Ray are waiting for Jesse when he gets home, both gathered around the kitchen table like casual dinner guests. Saul gives Jesse an encouraging smile, but it's weathered around the edges.

"You get the number?" Buck asks.

Jesse nods and takes the note out of his pocket as he moves closer. "So, what, I'm s'posed to set up a meeting with this dude? Are you gonna be there? How's this gonna work?"

"You're gonna pretend to be Heisenberg," Buck explains. "The details aren't important; you can say Walter White was just a patsy to take the fall and you've been in hidin' for a while. Whatever. Just get him hooked so he shows you the set-up."

"Then you bust in and make arrests and everybody goes home happy, right?" It's a long shot, but Jesse's an optimist at heart.

Billy Ray frowns. "Not exactly. It's gonna take a while to earn his trust, but since you're not exactly lyin' about who you are it'd take less time than, say, one of us tryin' to do it."

Saul speaks for the first time since Jesse arrived home. "So, okay, say he gets on the guy's Christmas card list. What's your plan then?"

"Jesse's gonna hook him into a buy—tell 'em he knows somebody who can move large quantities of product. One of our agents is gonna pose as the buyer. Once the deal is made"—Buck spreads his hands—"y'all can go back to your lives."

Jesse isn't so sure about that. Are these men really people Jesse can trust here? Would they put Saul and Jesse's future first or follow some unseen agenda?

Jesse stares at the sticky note in his hand. The numbers are smudged a bit but still readable. "What if—what if he doesn't go for it? He basically handed me the product 'cause he was scared I was a cop. This could, like, drive him deeper underground."

"It's a risk," Buck admits, "but it's a calculated one. You're the only person who could get this close, Jesse."

Jesse risks a glance at Saul. Saul offers no reassurance, but he's not disagreeing either. This is entirely up to Jesse now.

"Fear and intimidation go a long way here," Billy Ray says. "You gotta stay strong. You scared him into handin' over the drugs before, right?"

_Who messes with the blowfish, Jesse?_

"Blowfishin' this up," Jesse murmurs, dialing the number with shaky hands. His body quakes through the rings.

Brad Donovan answers. "Hello?"

"Yo, let's try this again. Tell me where you're gettin' your glass."

"Who is this?"

"Somebody who's pissed you're slingin' my recipe. Blue Sky is _my_ shit, alright?"

There's a pause on the other end of the line, and Jesse fears he's lost his one tenuous connection to a happy future with Saul. Then, in a reverent whisper, Brad says, "Heisenberg?"

Jesse tries to force some bravado into his voice. "That's right, bitch."

"Bullshit. Heisenberg died months ago."

"Right, you really think I'd let them take me down that easy? Dude was just a fall guy. Had the perfect background and everything. Chemistry teacher? C'mon."

"So you've been laying low this whole time?" Brad still sounds skeptical, but there's a hint of interest there that tells Jesse he can be coaxed.

"Yeah, I wanna get started up cookin' again, but I gotta be careful. Can't have the same set-up as before, y'know."

"How did you get my number?"

"I know a guy who knows a guy...who knows another guy. Look, let's not get bogged down in details, alright? Point is, I got your number. Now, unless you want me findin' your house and kickin' your little punk ass, you're gonna meet me tomorrow and show me your set-up." Jesse feels a familiar tick in his blood. Too many memories. "If you're gonna cook my product, you're gonna do it the right way. My way."

Brad goes quiet. The silence strains Jesse's nerves. "Prove you're Heisenberg."

"The proof is in the cook, yo. Ninety-six point two percent pure. No adulterants. No food coloring." Jesse swallows. It feels like a steel belt's being tightened around his chest. "You got the supplies. I got the recipe. The way you're pushin' your product, you'll never make money."

Brad huffs a shaky, nervous laugh. "Heisenberg wants to cook with me?"

"Either that, or I turn you in."

Jesse closes his eyes and waits for an answer. Nausea roils in his stomach.

With a deep sigh, Brad says, "There's a cocktail place on South 67th, past the university. Meet me there tomorrow at midnight." He gives Jesse the address; Jesse jots it down on the back of the sticky note. "Don't pull any bullshit, alright?"

The line goes dead before Jesse can answer.

All the bravado rushes out of Jesse like the air from a balloon. He drops onto the sofa, buries his face in his hands. Saul's at his side almost immediately, taking Jesse into his arms and letting him find comfort there.

"You did your best, kid," Saul reassures him, rubbing small circles over his back. "I'll get us through this, I promise."

"That's not—he said he'd do it," Jesse blubbers out through jumpy lungs.

That piques Buck's interest. "He agreed to meet?" Jesse nods and gives Buck the note. Buck looks at the address, then looks at Jesse like they're two incongruent puzzle pieces. "This is great—why're you—did he say somethin' to you?"

"It's what _I_ said."

Buck's expression closes off. This is something only Saul will be privy to, and he knows it.

Jesse sniffles, wipes his wet face with his hand. "I need a shower," he grumbles, forcing himself to his feet and heading for the stairs.

"You did good," Billy Ray says. "I know it wasn't easy, but you did good."

Jesse isn't sure he believes that anymore.

* * *

"You wanna tell me what's wrong?" Saul asks that night, cuddled up to Jesse in their bedroom. "You're pretty sexy when you're tryin' to be tough, y'know that?"

Jesse breathes out a humorless laugh. "You mean when I'm tryin' to be like him, right?"

He doesn't even have to say the name anymore; Saul just knows.

"That stuff I said... It was all him. Well, most of it." He thinks that over for a second. "The worst of it." Saul can feel a small quake in Jesse's fragile body. "I can't do this if it's gonna turn me into him," he whimpers. "I don't want—that's not me."

Saul brushes away the tears cascading down Jesse's cheeks. "Hey, c'mon, you're nothin' like him. I wouldn't have fallen in love with someone like ol' Walt." He gives Jesse a wide-eyed, open look. "You know you don't have to do this, right? If this is gonna hurt you..." He glances off, bites his lips together. "I'm just sayin' there are other ways to solve this little problem..."

Jesse doesn't understand at first, then the pieces click together in his head. "Whoa, no way, are you suggestin' we"—he hesitates, his breath catching around the words—"like, _off_ them?"

Saul looks panicked. "Okay, that's—that's an option. Not what I was going for, but, sure, that's—I was talking about disappearing. New identities, new location. The whole gamut. We go somewhere new and start over."

"We already did that," Jesse reminds him. "And I don't wanna live the rest of my life lookin' over my shoulder. If we don't feel safe, how could we—" He bites down on that one, because now is _so_ not the time to mention having kids.

Saul seems like he wants to poke at Jesse's unspoken concerns, but he doesn't. "So you wanna stick with this whole cooperate-with-the-cops thing?"

Jesse nods, though he hears the criticism behind Saul's words. "Billy Ray wants to help us." He's aware of how naïve he sounds, and he hates it.

"Look, it's your decision. I'll respect whatever you choose. But, as you know, I've dealt with my fair share of cops, and, yeah, maybe I'm a little biased, but, uh...I'd rather run."

"How come you were all 'totally cooperate with them' before? What changed your mind?"

"The tape," Saul says simply, his eyes suddenly damp. "How could they see all that and still want you in handcuffs? I thought they might have a little bit of trouble coming over here and treating us like criminals. Apparently not." He forces out a bitter laugh. "But who's to say they're not gonna use you to catch this guy and then throw the book at you?"

Jesse really wishes he had a better answer than, "Because I don't think they would do that," to justify himself. He wets his lips, stares at the way Saul's fingers intertwine with his own. "What if...What if we got rid of the tape?"

"What?"

"Think about it. That's tape's the only evidence they got tyin' us to this whole mess, and if we take care of that, well, then they got nothin'."

"You want us to break into our neighbors' house—our _undercover cop_ neighbors' house, mind you—and steal evidence?" Saul has no reason to sound so fucking appalled by this; Jesse's a little insulted.

"Not us. _You_."

Saul's mouth drops open.

"I gotta meet this guy tomorrow night. I'll tell Buck and Billy Ray I want them as back-up just in case somethin' goes wrong. 'Cause, y'know, it's not unbelievable to think this dude might wanna kill me. They'll camp out in some unmarked van across the street from the bar, totally preoccupied. That's when you sneak over to their place and grab the tape."

Saul blinks way more times than necessary. "You think that's the only copy? Somethin' like that's bound to have a couple duplicates lying around the evidence locker."

"The cops only found the tape after Mr. White died." Jesse's brain snags on that particular detail. He shakes his head to clear it. "They got their guy. Case closed."

Saul makes his thinking face, which looks awfully skeptical.

"I'd totally do it myself, but they're gonna be watchin' me like hawks," Jesse says. "I don't think they care about nailin' you as much as me."

Saul ignores how vaguely dirty that sounds. Big of him.

Jesse squeezes Saul's hand and fixes him with an intent gaze. "Look, this is the only chance we got. If our guy panics or decides he doesn't wanna cooperate, we're boned. Then who do you think Buck and Billy Ray are gonna come after if they go home empty-handed tomorrow night?"

Saul sighs a sound of resignation and offers up a half-smile. "You're lucky I love you, kiddo."

* * *

Buck and Billy Ray show up the next morning during breakfast, and Jesse's pretty much accustomed to them barging in by now. Jesse runs through the plan with them, and they seem pretty pliable to the whole thing. Buck insists, however, that Jesse wear a wire, which Saul objects to. But Jesse's done this before—that aborted sting with Schrader comes to mind—and he knows the wire won't be easily detected. Since they're meeting in a public place, Brad's probably not going to shoot him. So Jesse agrees.

Jesse's always hated the way his body surges with unhelpful, panicky adrenaline before doing something risky and terrifying. Sure, this isn't on the same level as meeting with Tuco or the train heist or the magnet ordeal or even Gale, but it's still enough to kick on the fight-or-flight response and render his fine motor skills useless.

Saul catches him fumbling with the button of his jeans after a shower, and he presses himself against the line of Jesse's back. "Now why would you be putting on pants?" Saul asks, a lilt of flirtation in his voice as he lays his hands over Jesse's own. "You know you look so much better without them."

Jesse wriggles into Saul's touch. "Most places have rules about wearin' clothes, Mr. Lawyer."

"Pretty sure our bedroom has a rule about _not_ wearing clothes," Saul says, pushing his fingers under the edge of Jesse's jeans. "A rule which you are currently violating."

Jesse turns around so he's facing Saul, because he loves the way Saul kisses like he's something sacred. "Guess you better punish me, huh?"

Saul pushes the jeans off his hips, shoves his hands into Jesse's boxers, palms skimming over Jesse's ass. Saul's mouth is hot and hungry against Jesse's own, and he captures Jesse's lips with frantic kisses. Jesse lets Saul drag his t-shirt over his head and discard it somewhere on the bed; he's not paying much attention, not when Saul's sucking kisses into the curve of his neck.

Sex is a pretty decent way to channel that nervous energy into something good, so Jesse shoves Saul into the Papasan and climbs into his lap, taking his rigid line of heat all the way in. Jesse groans into the air between them and rocks his hips, overwhelmed by the way Saul fits snugly inside of him. Saul's hands are tight around Jesse's thighs while his hips work underneath him.

Saul hums quiet, contented noises into Jesse's mouth, and Jesse knots his trembling hands in Saul's hair, gripping at his shoulders every now and then when the shove of their hips knocks the breath out of him. Jesse gives himself over to feeling, riding Saul's dick a little harder than usual, but Saul doesn't seem to mind, just presses kisses to Jesse's throat and collarbone and moans his name over the tattoo on his chest.

Jesse can feel Saul's hands dragging down his back, fingers pressing into the valley of his spine. He rises up, sinks down again, and shudders out a sound of need. Saul kisses Jesse's mouth, tongue gliding over his Adam's apple when Jesse tips his head back and sighs praises. His rhythm slows as he gets closer, because he wants this to last as long as it can, this brief, stretched-out moment of bliss where there's nothing but the white-hot heat between them. Jesse chokes out a moan, his nails scraping over Saul's chest, and Saul wraps a hand around the feverish jut of Jesse's dick, stroking him until they're both lost in the pull, shivering and shaking through their mutual orgasm.

Their hips pick up velocity, crashing together in a hot clash of need. Jesse wonders if it's this good for Saul too, if his nerves blaze and scream and surge the same way Jesse's do. Saul's panting into the curve of Jesse's throat, holding him tight and murmuring his name like a prayer. Jesse pushes his fingers through Saul's sweat-damp hair before burying his nose there as he catches his breath. His whole body's a quivery mess, and he can feel a slimy trail of lube and cum dripping down his inner thighs. Saul slides his hand over the curve of Jesse's ass and rubs two fingers over his aching entrance. Jesse moans and slumps impossibly further in his arms.

He wishes this steady hum of arousal between them could last forever, that their biggest worry was leaving jizz stains on the couch cushion. But Jesse's got bigger fish to fry, so to speak, so he dismounts on shaky legs and searches for his clothes on the floor. "Got me all dirty again after my shower," Jesse grumbles, like he's put out about that particular fact.

Saul makes a quiet noise of contemplation, a smile quirked at the corner of his lips. "Want me to clean you up?"

Jesse doesn't have to answer, because Saul's moving over to him and nudging him against the bed. Jesse goes with it, lets his legs fall open. Saul kisses lines along Jesse's inner thighs, licking up the slick mixture of cum and lube. The heat of Saul's breath ghosts over Jesse's barest of skin, making him squirm and writhe. Jesse drops his head back and groans, then, _whoa what the fuck that's his tongue._

Jesse moans a loud, embarrassing noise that's surprise and satisfaction all at once. The slippery, wet stab of tongue down there turns his brain to jelly, and all Jesse can do is dig his fingers in Saul's hair as his lungs spasm with hitched breaths. Saul licks and strokes and rubs and teases his tongue in small circles that make Jesse's nerves tense. He's absolutely going to come again; he can feel the tight clench of an orgasm building slowly at the base of his spine. His toes curl, and he gasps out, "God—Saul—" as he hooks his rubbery legs over Saul's shoulders and drags his heels over Saul's back.

Saul laps patiently at his opening, coaxing him to the edge of the world. When Jesse's whole body goes tight, Saul hums around him, and just like that Jesse's _gone_. Jesse makes a sound like he's dying as a gut-punch of an orgasm hits him, an agonizing stretch that feels like he's coming apart, too much like the heroin and meth speedballs he'd done with Jane.

Once Jesse's able to speak again, he says, "Shit, that was—you're amazing." Saul breathes laughter over Jesse's flagging cock before enveloping his mouth over the head and licking him clean. "God, you're so fuckin' good to me," Jesse sighs, dragging his fingers through Saul's hair.

"Yeah, I'm a real prince." Saul presses a kiss to Jesse's hip bone before resting his chin there.

Jesse smiles, pushing a few stray strands of hair off of Saul's face. He tries hard not to think about all the things that could go wrong tonight. He glances away, fearful that Saul might see the worry in his eyes. His gaze snags on the clock on the night table. The neon numbers read 11:37 p.m.

"Shit," Jesse mumbles, pushing himself up on his elbows. "I gotta go." Saul nods, understanding, and hands Jesse his clothes. Jesse dresses slower than usual, wanting to stretch out these last few moments. "Are you good? Y'know what you gotta do?"

"Go over there and grab the tape. Yeah, piece of cake." Saul shrugs, but the gesture seems forced.

Jesse watches him. "I know it's a lot to ask. You don't have to—"

Saul stops him with a hand. "Hey, c'mon, I promised I'd keep you safe, remember?" He pulls his boxers over his hips. "I can do this. No sweat. You're the one stepping into the, uh, danger zone, if you will."

"Was that an _Archer_ reference or a _Top Gun_ reference?"

"Whichever makes you laugh harder."

Jesse grins, feels the swell of euphoria in his chest. "I love you."

"I know." Saul smirks and reaches for Jesse's hands. Jesse gives them to him, because he's never been Han Solo'ed in a relationship before. "Now, go on, kid. You don't wanna be late to a meet with a drug dealer. They're, uh, pretty big on punctuality."

Jesse nods and turns away.

"Be safe," Saul calls to him as he descends down the stairs

* * *

South 67th Street is a long stretch of road that cuts through the University of Nebraska Omaha's Pacific Campus and boasts a plethora of upscale restaurants, bars, and businesses. A good deal of the area is under construction, but everything's created to give off a sleek, modern look. Each building has at least two stories, the topmost floors built almost entirely out of sea-green glass windows. Jesse finds it dubious why a pizza joint or a bakery would need two stories—a V.I.P. lounge, perhaps, so the rich and elite need not mingle with the great unwashed?

He's thankful for his phone's GPS capabilities, because the bar is tucked away near a Thai restaurant, unassuming and unremarkable. Jesse parks right out front, just in case he needs to make a quick getaway. The place is busy enough that Buck and Billy Ray can park their surveillance vehicle near the end of the lot and draw no suspicion. They won't be spotted from inside.

Jesse wipes his sweaty hands on his jeans. Will Brad run when he sees Jesse? Because it's not like that hasn't happened before. He doesn't think Brad's the violent type, but, Christ, it only takes one moment of panic to supercede all rational thought. Jesse knows all too well that sometimes good, gentle people on the straight and narrow are capable of doing terrible things. Evil hooks into you and doesn't let go.

Isn't that why Jesse's here now?

He swallows thickly, turns off the ignition, and gets out of the car. When he steps inside the lounge, he feels like he's stepped into a past dimension. Babylon Zoo's "Spaceman" pours out onto the street as Jesse pushes open the door. Posters of the Spice Girls, Michael Jackson, and Nirvana decorate the walls. The high-backed chairs at the bar are done up to look like Game Boys. Other chairs take on the form of neon-colored cassette tapes. Round tables shaped like CDs sit between couches resembling Tetris blocks. There's even some inflatable seating in hot pink and neon green. The dim lighting draws attention to the glow-in-the-dark stars plastered over the ceiling. One wall is covered in license plates from various states. A large-screen TV shows an episode of _Hey Arnold! _There's even a makeshift arcade built into a small room that looks like one of those Starbucks airport lounges.

One word: radical.

The patronage is all college kids desperate to relive their blissful youth, which isn't a bad business model for a place so close to a college campus. Apparently this is where '90s kids come to drink. Jesse wonders if he looks out of place here. No one else seems to be dressed in the clichés of '90s fashion, but Jesse still feels like he doesn't belong.

He scans the place for Brad and finds him tucked away by himself at a table in the back, typing away on his smartphone. Jesse frowns at the anachronism but moves closer. "Pretty sure they didn't have iPhones in the '90s," Jesse says, nearing the table where Brad's sitting.

Brad startles to attention, his eyes wide in panic. He doesn't seem to be scanning the place for emergency exits, so that's good. "You? _You're_ the guy?" he exclaims.

"Yeah, we really gotta stop meetin' like this." Jesse's fairly sure Saul's irritating sense of humor is rubbing off on him.

Brad looks like his mind's just been blown in the worst of ways. "Really? It's you? Is that why you were asking me all those questions?"

Jesse stuffs his hands into his pockets. "Partially, yeah."

Brad stares at him for a moment or two. Jesse wonders if this is how zoo animals feel.

"So, you're, uh, you're Heisenberg?" he asks in a low whisper, drowned out over the music.

But Jesse recognizes the chill that crawls up his spine at the name. He nods and takes the seat across from Brad. "In the flesh."

"How'd you escape? The cops must've been looking for you for ages."

"That's not important."

Brad looks offended. "Uh, _yeah_, it is. If we're gonna be business partners, I'd like to know I'm not gonna end up like your last associate, thank you very much."

He's got a point. Jesse gives a conceding nod. A little honesty will go a long way here. "Alright, so maybe I lied a bit. Heisenberg..." He leans in, lowers his voice. "Heisenberg was two dudes. Me and the other guy. I knew the business, he knew the chemistry."

"So you don't actually know how to cook it?"

"Would I be here wastin' our time if I couldn't cook cherry product?" Jesse scoffs. "The problem wasn't the meth. It was Mr. White's greedy old ass. I wasn't—" He wipes a hand over his mouth. "I wasn't even the one who did him in. He asked me to, but I..." Jesse shakes his head, aborts that line of thought entirely. "Whatever. That's not gonna happen. Just tell me how you cook."

"My knowledge of science goes as far as 'salt is salty,' alright? I run distribution. I'm the, uh, Gus Fring of my enterprise, if you will."

Jesse remembers how Brad's Facebook profile had listed his minor in criminal justice. So of course Brad would know who Gus Fring was and how he played into the Heisenberg case.

Jesse realizes in stark horror that he might actually have _fans_.

"So you got guys workin' for you?"

"And girls. We're equal opportunity, y'know," Brad says.

"Yeah, you sound like a real humanitarian."

"You wanna talk numbers? That's why you're here, right? You need the money?"

Jesse considers it briefly for a moment before shaking off the thought. "This ain't about money. If you're gonna cook my product, you're gonna do it right. This food coloring shit's gotta stop, yo."

Brad goes a little pale. "How do you know about that?"

"Mr. White was a master chemist. Whoever you got cookin' for you ain't even in the same league, yo." Sure, Mr. White was an asshole, but he could cook some damn good meth.

"And you're gonna show us, why, exactly? 'Cause you're a great guy?"

"'Cause I don't have a lab. You guys do. I can't get my hands on the ingredients. Whatever you guys are doin', it's workin'. And I wanna be a small and silent part of it."

Brad looks like he's thinking it over. Tough sell.

"Look, no offense, but you guys sound like a bunch of wimps. But if you got me on your side, nobody'll fuck with you. We'll be kings."

* * *

Saul's never done anything this cataclysmically stupid.

Actually, that's a lie, because he aided Walt in Brock's poisoning. And he's done a lot of other shit he's not proud of. But he can lie to himself and say it wasn't _him_ who perpetuated the crime—he was just a small cog in the wheel of madness, blissfully ignorant to the consequences.

But this? This is hands-on crime. You don't walk away from something like this without getting your hands dirty. Buck and Billy Ray won't be able to prove Saul had a part in this, but, of course, they'll know. They'll look at him a little differently from now on, watch him a bit more carefully. They will no longer trust him—if they ever did to begin with.

Saul's not even doing this to save his own ass. Even with the bombshell of the tape, Jesse's confession is a case of he-said-he-said when it comes to Saul Goodman. Saul covered his tracks impeccably well; if Buck and Billy Ray choose to dig, they won't find anything. Total goose egg.

It's Jesse he needs to save. That's his job, after all. Gotta look out for Pinkman, right?

Bark Lee's tethered to his doghouse, snoozing happily in the back yard when Saul creaks open the gate. He turns his ears toward the direction of the sound and pries an eye open. Then the mutt goes right back to sleeping, sensing no threat in Saul's presence.

Saul figures he'll try the back door first, because he's counting on dumb luck here and really doesn't want to be spotted trying to finagle his way into the front entrance. Most people put all their security into the front; the back, however, is usually woefully unprotected. Then again, these guys are cops, so they're probably smarter about home protection than the average homeowner.

Saul tries the knob anyway, grins to himself as the door swings open. Bingo, baby. Maybe they assumed the presence of a rather large dog in the yard would deter a would-be burglar from using the back entrance. And that would have worked, had that burglar not been someone Bark Lee considers a buddy.

Saul gets the screen door open, takes care to shut both of the doors as he makes his way inside. He's wearing gloves to ensure no prints will be left on anything he touches. Yeah, he's thorough.

The whole place smells like tobacco, an almost tangible odor Saul can taste in the back of his throat. He's definitely gonna need to wash these clothes.

Jesse had suggested just stealing the tape and calling it a day, but Saul knows better. Evidence goes through a chain of custody, and if it goes missing somebody's got to be held responsible. And who will be that unlucky soul holding the smoking gun? The last person to sign the evidence out—Buck or Billy Ray.

Yes, Saul's breaking into his friends' house and stealing something, but they're still his friends. It's not their fault they're investigating a case that overlaps with their neighbors' lives. No reason for them to suffer as well.

So Saul can't just steal the tape. He's got to feign a total burglary, enabling Buck and Billy Ray to save face and write the whole thing off as a break-in. No one will come down on them too harshly if someone broke in and stole their expensive electronics, because most thieves just take the whole damn DVD player, disc included. But a lone disc turning up missing would certainly raise eyebrows.

"Bad idea," Saul grumbles to himself. "This is a bad idea."

He's seen enough crime scene photos to be pretty good at turning a place over. And being friends—in a very loose sense of the word—with Mike Ehrmantraut didn't hurt either. He drops all the electronics he can carry into a box: DVD player, laptop, tablets. He pulls open drawers and cabinets, rips open mattresses and couch cushions to imply a search for cash. He drops a couple belt buckles and watches that look valuable into the box.

Saul feels like he ought to hate Jesse for making this damn tape, but he can't muster up any anger at the kid. Because the raw emotion and anguish and honesty Jesse displays on this tape is more than Saul can handle. Jesse had protested when Saul volunteered to view the tape, and with good reason. Saul's probably not going to die in seven days after watching it, but he knows he's irrevocably changed because of it.

He still loves the kid though. He loves the way Jesse rolls his eyes at Saul's dumb jokes, the way he glances off and rubs his neck when he's embarrassed, that little flirty smile at the corner of his mouth, the way he moans and clutches onto Saul when they make love, the way Saul catches him mouthing along to the radio when he thinks Saul's not looking, the way they fit together when they sleep, the way he baby-talks to Bark Lee, the rush at his touch, the music of his laughter, the freckles on his shoulders, the way he cuddles into Saul when they're in bed, the way he blushes and smiles when Saul calls him "Pretty Boy."

None of that changed in the wake of the tape. Saul's heart had only grown to love him more.

The sound of tires rolling over gravel outside snaps him out of his reverie. Shit. Are Buck and Billy Ray home already? How long has he been in here? Time to blow this joint.

He might be able to make it out from the back yard, ducking low through the trees and eventually making a huge circle around to his house. He can stash the loot in his car, drive it to the dump—

Another sound makes his blood curdle: Bark Lee. A barking dog is pretty much white noise anymore, gone the way of car alarms as a sound people tend to ignore. But Bark Lee wouldn't bark like this at his owners. This isn't a "oh boy, I'm happy to see you!" greeting; this is a warning, a bark of fear and panic.

Adrenaline surges through Saul's veins. He's never learned to harness that whole adrenaline-rush thing into something useful. He needs to slow down and think. He's wasted too much time already. He's not getting out of here with the box of electronics. So just take the tape and go. Hold on to it and see if Jesse's Heisenberg scheme pans out.

Bark Lee's barking picks up energy. Whoever's lurking around outside must be getting closer. Over the pounding in his ears, he hears the front door rattling. Like someone's trying to get inside.

Saul rushes over to the sofa. Using strength attributed to his adrenaline going haywire, he pushes the couch along the floor until it's blocking the door. Without thinking, he climbs onto the sofa and peers out the peephole. It's dark, so Saul can't make out features with any real certainty, but the intruder doesn't look familiar.

He stares out the peephole for a moment or two, the only sounds that of his raucous heartbeat and his panicked breathing. The intruder backs away from the front door. Saul breathes out a sigh of relief.

But the stranger isn't walking away. He's walking around the side of the building.

That's when Saul remembers the back door is unlocked.

_Fuck_.

You hear all the stories about fear enabling people to lift cars off of loved ones, but the flip side of that is fear paralyzes the hell out of you and can make running feel like you're trudging through morphine-infused molasses. Saul sprints to the back door, but the obstacle course he'd made of couch cushions and overturned furniture slows him down.

Bark Lee barks louder, harder. Saul's shoes slide over the hardwood floor in the kitchen. He trips on an overturned pole lamp, scrambles to his feet. The back door swings open. Too late. Caught.

The intruder looks startled to see someone inside the house. His surprise melts away in a nano-second, and then there's a gun in Saul's face.

"Don't fuckin' move."

Saul's not great at making snap decisions, but the primal instinct part of his brain kicks in and starts calling the shots. Obeying the gunman's orders would be a death sentence. Make a run for it. No hesitation.

Saul rushes down the hallway. When he and Buck spent an afternoon digging around Buck's closet for Christmas decorations, Saul had seen a small box on the top shelf marked "38 Special." A revolver. Not police-issue. Buck wouldn't have it on him now. It should still be in the closet. If Saul can just make it there in time, he can block the door long enough to get the gun.

No dice. A shot rings out. Something hot slices into Saul's side above his hip. Pain explodes through his waist, and he drops to the floor like a marionette with its strings cut. Horror tears a hole in Saul's gut. _OhGodohGodohGod_. "No, no, no, please—" Saul can't die here; Jesse's strong, but nobody comes back from that four times.

The intruder knots a hand in the back of Saul's t-shirt and yanks him off of the floor. "You're not a cop. Who are you?"

Saul can feel blood leaking out of his side. Fuck. He presses his gloved hands over his wound to stem the bleeding. He slumps against the wall, stares into the black hole of the gun barrel. "I'm just a neighbor—We—we seem to have a similar idea here, right? With the robbery? What're you looking for? I'll help you. Just please don't kill me—"

The next shot would be at point-blank range. Don't risk it. "You were tryin' to steal shit, huh? What do they got?"

Saul remembers the word choice he'd used earlier: cop. Somehow this stranger knows Buck and Billy Ray are on the force. Is this guy here to destroy evidence too?

It doesn't matter. Saul's not leaving here alive. He's going to die, and Jesse will be left to comb through his possessions and find that box hidden away in the bedside table drawer and his heart will break anew...

"Look, I—I'm a lawyer. If you just put the gun down, we can talk about this, and whatever you think they got on you I can make—I can make it disappear!"

The intruder looks skeptical. "What kind of lawyer breaks into someone's house?"

"Wait, wait, wait, you said these guys are cops?" Get him talking. Stall for time.

The gunman takes the bait. "They used to work down in Lincoln. I didn't recognize them 'cause of the beards and shit, but I remember that dog. Heard they were sniffin' around the Heisenberg case."

Saul's eyes widen. Oh no. If these are the people Jesse's getting involved with...

Saul's gaze darts around the room for some sort of weapon, a distraction he can use to his advantage.

That distraction comes in the form of a four-legged attack dog. Bark Lee leaps through the open door and digs his teeth into the intruder's leg. The man lets loose a gutteral scream of pain. He tries to shake his leg loose and loses his balance in the process. The stranger drops to the floor. Bark Lee's still on him, jaws clamped around the man's leg.

But he still has the gun.

The intruder swings his aim toward Bark Lee. _If he hurts that dog, that sweet innocent dog..._

Saul moves with a speed and ferocity he didn't know he possessed. He grabs the pole lamp and swings it like the mallet in a test-your-strength carnival base of the lamp smashes into the man's skull just as he pulls the trigger. The shot is wild. Bark Lee jumps away at the sound of the blast.

The gun clatters out of the intruder's hand. A gurgling, choking noise fills the room as he tries to get air into his lungs through his busted nasal cavities. Saul cringes at the sound. _He shouldn't be alive. Why is he still alive?_

The man strains to reach for his gun, fingers twitching against the butt of the weapon. Saul kicks the gun away to the other side of the room, underneath the dining table. Bark Lee scampers over the body and runs to Saul. Saul lets go of the lamp and drops to his knees. He barely registers the sensation of Bark Lee licking his face. Pain shoots through him in every direction. He wraps his shaky arms around Bark Lee and hugs him tight. Bark Lee's tail wags in appreciation. Saul pats his hands over the dog's body, searching for injuries. He doesn't find any.

Half a frayed cord dangles weightlessly from Bark Lee's collar. In the melee, Saul hadn't even wondered how the dog got loose from his leash. He must have lunged against his restraints hard enough to snap the old, worn rope.

Bark Lee's muzzle is stained with red. There might be bits of flesh caught in his teeth, but Saul's trying very hard not to look at that. The man's still breathing, hellish sounds like drops of water being sucked up a straw. Saul gets a glimpse of his handiwork and feels bile rise in his throat; the man's head is split open as if it were the messy aftermath of a Gallagher routine.

Nausea swims through Saul's stomach. Christ, what a mess. All he wanted was that damn tape. What now?

Saul can't worry about himself at this stage. The focus must stay on Jesse. What would be best for him?

Jesse's future lies in the existence of that tape. That's what Saul came here for, and that's what he's leaving with.

Saul peels the bloody gloves off of his hands. He grabs onto a chair for balance as he struggles to his feet. He gets his gloves between his teeth before taking hold of the box handles. Under normal circumstances, the box wouldn't be that heavy, but with the wound in his side he might as well lift a sack of bricks.

No go. He won't make it to the car with this box, not unless he wants to bleed out before the paramedics arrive.

Saul pries open the DVD tray and takes the disc out. He limps around the now-still body of the intruder, makes his way out the back door. Saul knows there's going to be a blood trail leading straight to the trunk of his car, but he doesn't think he can make it to the house; pain screams through his every nerve. He'll just have to bullshit his way through a police statement, which won't be too difficult—he's guaranteed to be delirious with pain by the time the paramedics arrive. He opens the trunk, drops the gloves into a black garbage bag and tosses the tape in with them. That's gonna have to do for now.

Saul slumps against the car, the pain making his head spin. His eyes are like long tunnels now. He closes his eyes and sways. He can't just leave the body in that house for Buck and Billy Ray to find. The head wound is a huge red flag that someone else was here; it's not like Bark Lee could've smashed the dude's head in.

Odds are someone heard the gunshots and the barking and placed a call to the police. The cops will be on their way. He can't let that happen. Buck and Billy Ray have to get here first.

_ Think. Think!_

Saul breathes in the coppery smell of his own blood as he runs through the facts.

The gun—with the intruder's prints on it—has been fired twice, one bullet probably lodged in Saul's side. If not, it's stuck in the drywall with Saul's blood and DNA on it. The crime scene techs will determine the angle of that bullet and learn Saul couldn't possibly have shot himself to frame their John Doe. The bullet's entry wound is from the back, with no muzzle stamp on Saul's skin or clothing; proof that Saul fulfilled his duty to retreat before using deadly force.

Except claiming self-defense won't fly, because, technically, Saul _did_ break in to Buck and Billy Ray's house. You can't defend yourself from deadly force when you're committing a crime. So the question remains: how to explain his presence in that house?

The place is already turned over, and the guy came there to rob them. Saul will pretend he saw suspicious activity next door and went to check it out. It's not like the dude was some Boy Scout going door-to-door selling magazine subscriptions.

With a shaky, clammy hand, Saul takes his cell phone out of his pocket and dials Buck's number.


	14. For Your Life

A chiming sound rings out from Jesse's jacket pocket. He jumps and fishes his phone out.

There's a text message from Buck on the screen: _**can u handle things on ur own? emergency at home g2g **_

Horror punches a hole straight through Jesse's chest. Was Saul caught staging the break-in? Or did something worse happen?

No, Saul couldn't have been caught. Bark Lee would see nothing amiss in Saul's presence there, so he wouldn't bark and alert the neighbors. Even if someone caught a glimpse of Saul entering or leaving the place, they've probably seen him over there enough times that it wouldn't raise suspicion. And Saul's not dumb enough to stage a burglary and then call it in. He would want to distance himself from it, let Buck and Billy Ray discover it themselves.

Brad notices the change in Jesse's demeanor. He lifts an eyebrow, looks at how Jesse's clutching his phone like it might sprout wings and fly away. "Something important?"

Jesse takes a deep breath to clear his head. Whatever it is, Buck and Billy Ray are handling it. What sort of aid could Jesse bring to the table, really? Just because he wants to be there doesn't mean he'd be useful. He'd just get in the way.

So why mention the details at all? Why not just say, "hey, something came up" and leave it at that? They're cops; it's not crazy to think they might have something more important to do. The "emergency at home" part feels like a lure they're throwing to see if Jesse bites.

Jesse looks around the lounge. "Can I—can I smoke in here?"

"No, the ashtrays on the tables are just for show," Brad says, like he's answering the stupidest question ever uttered by a human being.

Jesse shoves his phone back into his pocket and withdraws a pack of cigarettes. He fumbles with the lighter but manages to get the thing lit. The nicotine helps calm him, but not by much. His leg starts jackhammering beneath the table. Acting like a lunatic won't help Jesse's chances getting in with Brad's crew. He already looks like he's been on a week-long bender. Calm down. Focus.

"Alright," Jesse says, breathing out a plume of smoke, "so you don't cook. What's your set-up like? You use an RV, a factory, what?"

"Did you pass by the university on your way here?"

Jesse nods, takes another drag off of his cigarette.

"There's an old science building they've got under renovations, but nobody ever goes in there. We, uh, repurpose the lab, if you will."

"You just sneak on campus and cook? How do you get your shit past the guards?"

Brad snorts. "Guards? It's not Fort Knox, dude. Their idea of security is a fat guy on a golf cart. All it takes is a little green to make him look the other way."

"And how long 'til he starts squeezin' you for more?"

"Doesn't matter. Everybody involved in this operation has a specific monetary goal. Once we hit that, we're out. This isn't a long-term solution."

_Seven hundred and thirty-seven thousand. That's what I need._

Jesse chuckles humorlessly. "Well, I hate to break it to you, but you and your partner? You guys suck at peddling meth. Seriously, how the hell did you get this far?"

Brad scowls at the table like it's offended him somehow. "We did a lot better when we had the girls selling. They're sweet, unassuming, and, c'mon, if a hot chick flirted with you you'd probably buy what she was sellin'."

Jesse remembers the two girls he'd seen in pictures on Brad's Facebook. "So what happened? They quit?"

"There were"—Brad searches for the word—"complications."

"Like?" Jesse takes another drag.

"We ran into a, uh, rival gang. Call themselves the White Death. They threatened the girls. So me and George decided to take their place. The worst those guys'll do to us is kick our asses, y'know?"

Jesse hears the subtext there. Christ. He taps out the ash growing on the end of his cigarette. "Is that why you guys turned tail and ran when you met me? You thought I was part of this other gang?"

Brad nods, a solemn look crossing his face. "They killed one of our guys, so, yeah, we're a little paranoid."

The puzzle pieces click together in Jesse's head. "Was his name Shawn Wesson?"

Brad straightens up as if hit with a cattle prod. "How do you know that?"

"I work with his brother Duane."

For a moment Brad looks stunned, then his expression shifts into exasperation. "_Really_? Goddamn it." He must have realized how Jesse found his phone number.

"So Shawn went to the same school you guys do, huh?"

Another nod.

Jesse's leg starts bouncing again. "What's your inventory like?"

"We're sitting on about half a pound of product we can't sell, because these White Death assholes keep stealing our shit."

Just as Jesse suspected.

"When's your next cook?"

"I can set something up tomorrow night."

"Do it," Jesse urges. "We'll meet here, then you can show me the lab. I'll teach you how to cook the best batch you've ever made. You can start charging more." He thinks about dangling the "selling in bulk" carrot, but this is a slow, steady process. If Jesse pushes for too much too soon, Brad will get suspicious and back out of the deal. And then where will that leave Jesse?

Jesse's done all he can here. He stubs out his cigarette and rises from the table.

Brad stops him. "Wait—wait. Your, uh, your little ultimatum."

"Yeah?"

"You wouldn't—you wouldn't really turn us in, right?" He laughs nervously. "Right?"

Jesse stares at him for a long moment. He likes to think he wouldn't, but if push comes to shove—if his and Saul's future hung in the balance—he probably would. And that scares the fuck out of him.

"Just show up," Jesse says before walking away.

* * *

Jesse doesn't bother navigating his way back home on his own. He plugs his address into the GPS and drives pretty much on auto-pilot. He switches the radio from classic rock to top 40, but nothing's taking his mind off of Saul right now.

God, if something happened to him... Jesse should have been there. He should have abandoned the meet entirely and helped Saul steal the tape. Forget about this fucking Blue Sky ordeal. Why didn't they run when they had the chance?

Jesse grips the wheel tighter. None of this is helping. He needs a clear head to get his thoughts in order, think about his next step. Stay disciplined in the face of pure panic.

The ten minutes it takes him to reach his neighborhood are the longest of Jesse's life. He's pulling onto his street when he sees flashing red lights. Dread sinks in his gut like a dead weight.

"Oh no, no, no, no..."

The flashing lights belong to police cars and emergency vehicles congregated around Buck and Billy Ray's house. His driveway's blocked off by yellow crime scene tape. Jesse parks on the street and gets out of the car. He sprints toward the house, legs tingling in fear. That's when Jesse notices the body bag on the gurney being loaded into the ambulance, and he barely manages to stifle a scream.

_Nononononono!_

Anguish squeezes his insides and slows him to a stop. He can't lose the love of his life again. This has to be a nightmare. Jesse hiccups a sob. _Wake up, wake up, wake up! _ Why isn't he waking up?

He forces himself to keep moving. Buck and Billy Ray's place is also cordoned off by yellow tape. Jesse fights his way through the throng of faceless policemen. The front door is open, and Jesse spots Buck talking to a uniformed officer.

"Buck!" Jesse calls, ducking under the tape and rushing toward the house.

A voice behind Jesse says, "Sir, stay behind the tape, please."

Jesse turns around, sees the face of the cop who arrested him months ago. Gilligan, was it?

"'S'all right," Buck says from inside, stepping onto the front porch. "Let him through."

Jesse can hardly see through his wet, blurry eyes. He stumbles forward and collapses into Buck's chest, sobs spilling out of his lungs. "How could you—why didn't you tell me?" he whimpers, clutching fistfuls of Buck's shirt. The man's beard scratches Jesse's face, but he barely feels anything but the void of despair swallowing him whole.

Buck lays his hands on Jesse's shoulders. "Tell you what? We got it under control."

Jesse gapes at him in disbelief. "What happened? Where's Saul?"

"Hospital."

The word rips the breath from Jesse's lungs. He feels himself start to fall, the world teetering underneath him. Buck holds him up.

"He's all right. Billy's with him. He'd let me know the minute somethin' went south."

So that wasn't Saul in the body bag. Thank Christ. Jesse breathes a shaky sigh of fleeting relief. "I—I have to go," he sputters out.

"Slow down, kid." Buck holds his hand out like he's waiting for something. Jesse stares at it for a moment before giving him a hesitant low-five. A weird thing to ask for in the middle of all this, but whatever.

Buck's brow furrows like he's wondering if Jesse was dropped at birth. "The wire." He wiggles his fingers.

"Oh." Jesse reaches underneath his shirt and rips the mic free, crumpling up the wires and shoving them into Buck's open palm. "Here."

Jesse finds his footing and stumbles to his car in a numb haze. He can barely manage to type "_**where are you? is Saul ok?**_" to Billy Ray before his eyes blur over with tears.

_Your fault, Jesse. Your fault._

Jesse gets into his car, fear gnawing into his marrow. Saul needs him right now. This is not the time to go to pieces. Jesse sits there for several minutes and wills himself to calm down enough to switch on the ignition.

His cell phone dings with a text message. The sound startles him out of his haze. He reaches into his pocket, sees that Billy Ray's written back with the hospital address. Jesse doesn't think twice before putting the car into drive.

* * *

Jesse's face-to-face with Billy Ray when the elevator doors open up to the second floor of the hospital. "Where is he?" Jesse gasps, rushing out and clutching onto Billy Ray's worn flannel shirt. "What happened? I have to see—"

"Whoa, hold your horses, kid. This ain't the I.C.U. Saul's fine. Well, he will be. He's a lil' banged up, but—"

"How bad?"

"He took a bullet in the side."

Jesse's mouth drops open. An icy nerve-jangle punctures a hole straight through his heart. "What? What do you mean, 'he's fine'? He got shot?"

"They already stitched him up. He'll just be sore for a lil' while." Billy Ray leads Jesse to a set of nearby chairs.

Jesse drops into the seat. His bones feel heavy. "What happened?"

"There was a break-in at our place. Saul says he went over there to check it out, got in over his head. He and Bark Lee incapacitated the guy, but the fella bled out before the paramedics got there."

Jesse gulps. _Bled out_. Saul killed someone. Something presses against Jesse's ribs and makes it hard to breathe. "Who was it?"

"The wallet he had on 'im belonged to an Austin Merritt. Local gangbanger."

"But it wasn't him?"

"Hard to tell," Billy Ray says around a grimace. "Prints'll give us a solid ID."

Jesse feels his heart crawl into his windpipe. What the fuck happened in that house? His leg starts jackhammering again. He hugs himself like he's cold. "Is Bark Lee okay?"

"He's fine. Might take a good bath or two to get the stains outta his fur, but he's right as rain."

Jesus, literally every question Jesse asks has some awful, horrible answer. He rakes a hand over his scalp. Tears flood his eyes. "Is Saul in trouble?"

Billy Ray shrugs. "He shouldn't be. He told me what happened on the ride here. I got 'im a good attorney just in case, but from what I'm hearin' it sounds pretty cut and dry. Self-defense. Saul made a run for it, guy shot 'im, Saul did what he had to do. He's got permission to be on our property, so trespassin' ain't an issue."

Jesse hears his words as though he's underwater.

"Maybe he'll come under fire for a civil suit, but there shouldn't be any criminal charges. 'Course, that ain't up to me. But his chances are pretty good."

Billy Ray's voice barely cuts through the haze. All Jesse can hear is his inner voice screaming, _my fault, my fault_. Tears leak from his eyes, but he can't muster up full-body sobs. It feels like somebody's pulled out his internal plug. "Where is he? I need to see him."

Billy Ray gestures with his thumb to the nearest room on their left. "Right in there. He's not critical or nothin', just sleepin' 'til the anesthetic wears off."

Jesse stands on shaky legs and steps inside the room. Saul's fast asleep in the bed. He doesn't look drawn or pale or fragile, but Jesse can't help the fear that bubbles up in his throat, because this is the last place he'd ever want to see Saul.

No, second to last.

There are probably more depressing places to be alone than a hospital room, but Jesse can't think of any. He doesn't want Saul to be alone when he wakes up. So he sits in a chair at Saul's bedside and waits.

It takes some time, but eventually grief breaks through Jesse's wall of denial. He hugs his knees to his chest and sobs quietly, lets the tears flow freely. "I'm so sorry," he whimpers. "I shouldn't have—I should've gone with you... I'm sorry, I'm sorry..."

Jesse doesn't know how long he cries, just that he stops when a familiar gravelly voice murmurs, "Ah, jeez, kid, what're you doin' here?"

Jesse's head snaps up as if on a string. Saul gives him a pained, "what can you do" smile. Just like that, all the fear and panic drops out of Jesse like it's been cut out of him. Love takes its place, blooming warm in his chest. "Where else would I be?"

Saul rolls his eyes, but there's no heat to it.

"How do you feel?" Jesse asks, dragging the chair closer to the bed.

"Like I've been shot, which is pretty much what happened."

Jesse gulps down a sob that threatens to surface. "In your side, right?"

"'Tis a flesh wound. Lucky me." Saul's mouth pulls into a tired smirk. "You talk to Billy Ray?"

Jesse nods, wringing his hands. "He told me what happened." He squeezes his eyes shut, tears gushing down his cheeks. "I'm so sorry... I shouldn't have—"

"Don't. This isn't on you."

"Everyone I care about gets hurt 'cause of me..." Jesse whimpers. "I'm poison."

"Kid, you're the best thing that's ever happened to me," Saul says.

There's no way... Not after the hell Saul's been through because of Jesse. Jesus, the first time they met Jesse kidnapped the guy, drove him out to the desert and stuck a gun in his face. Before their reunion in Omaha, their last interaction involved Jesse punching Saul and, again, pointing a gun at him. Seems to be a pattern here.

"Wow, your life must suck," Jesse says.

Saul chuckles. "Not anymore."

"I got you shot," Jesse reminds him, because that's a pretty important point.

"You also give me the best orgasms I've ever had." Saul sort of shrugs. "You gotta take the good with the bad."

Jesse finds himself laughing despite the weight in his chest. He brushes his fingers over Saul's hand, as if his touch might shatter him completely. Jesse wipes his tears with his free hand and pulls himself together. "I'm glad you're alive," he says in a small voice.

"Me too." Saul curls his fingers around Jesse's own and looks at him for a long moment. Jesse wonders what he sees there.

That's when Saul says three words that make the ground buckle and crack under Jesse's feet: "Marry me, Jesse."

Jesse gapes at him. "What?"

"You heard me. When all this is over, whatever happens, I wanna spend the rest of my life with you. More than anything."

Something in Jesse's chest rises and takes flight.

Saul gives him that self-deprecating half-smile. "I know things are a little crazy right now, so if you wanna hold off on—"

"I'll do it. I'll marry you," Jesse says, a grin spreading across his face. "I'll marry the fuck outta you."

* * *

Since Saul's "lucky"—the bullet missed his internal organs and he sustained no head injuries—he doesn't need to stay overnight for observation. Jesse brings him a change of clothes and drives him home. Billy Ray follows, making sure they get home safely. The commotion on their street is gone, which Saul appreciates. But he's not sure he feels totally safe in the solitude either.

Jesse hops in the shower while Saul gets comfortable in the bed. He can't do much but lie on his stomach, which, okay, his spine will hate him for a while, but at least he won't put pressure on his sore side. Sometimes sacrifices must be made.

Jesse's skin is still damp when he's finished. They share a brief, quiet moment of eye contact before Jesse gets that "serious discussion" look on his face and reaches out for Saul as he moves toward the bed. "C'mere."

Saul can't resist an excuse to cuddle, and he gives zero fucks how unmanly that sounds. He lets Jesse take him into his arms, and Saul falls into the embrace. God, does he need comfort right now. He wants to melt into this hug and stay in Jesse's arms forever.

Jesse links his arms around Saul's waist and rests his head on his shoulder. Saul runs his fingers over Jesse's tattooed arm. "You wanna talk about it?"

"What, the wedding? You don't strike me as the type to want a fifty-thousand dollar cake or a giant swan statue made out of ice, so maybe a small ceremony would be fine, right?"

Jesse sighs at his ear. "That's not what I meant. But if we have an ice statue it's gonna be somethin' cool, like Godzilla or Darth Vader." He twines his fingers with Saul's. "But, yo, you can't just bottle this stuff up. It'll drive you crazy."

If Saul can't talk to Jesse about this, who else can he turn to? "He said he knew they were cops. I guess he was there to see if they had anything on him." It's all a panicky, terrifying blur. Saul struggles to recall every detail. "He said something about finding out Buck and Billy Ray were looking into the Heisenberg case."

"How would he know that?"

Saul shrugs. His brain and body are tired, and he just wants to forget about today entirely. "I don't know."

Jesse does the thinking for him. He snuggles Saul closer, kissing the slope of his shoulder. "Maybe he's got somebody on the inside."

That stops him. "Like a cop?"

"Well, yeah. I used to watch a lot of mafia movies, and they usually had a cop or judge on the take. Somebody paid to look the other way."

Saul's about to prod at the "used to" part of that sentence before his rational brain kicks on. Being knee deep in the world of organized crime probably soured Jesse's enjoyment of the mob genre; really, how can someone enjoy _The Godfather_ when, for a time, they _were_ Michael Corleone? Fiction should be escapism, not a funhouse-mirror version of the worst time of your life.

"You think Buck and Billy Ray considered that?" Saul asks.

He feels Jesse shrug. "I dunno. Maybe they're suspicious." He trails off as if he's at a loss for words.

Saul attempts to change the subject. "How was your meet? Were you safe?"

"Yeah, totally. Dude's just some college kid workin' the distribution end. I'm s'posed to meet the rest of the crew tomorrow night for a cook."

Saul chews his lip. "I've been thinking... This guy wouldn't have cared about the Heisenberg case unless he's connected into the manufacture of blue meth going on right now." He lifts his head to look at Jesse. "Have you considered the possibility that you're not as safe as you think with these people?"

Jesse sighs. "I thought we talked about this already."

"That was before I had to play Whack-a-Mole with a guy's skull, so excuse me if I'm being a little paranoid. Look, they've been fighting a war on drugs since, what, the '70s? Drug dealers are like the heads of a hydra. After this case, there'll be another one, and another one, and another one. Hell, with a simple Google search anybody could find the recipe and cook it themselves. It's never gonna end, Jesse. And I'll be damned if I lose you 'cause you wanna play the hero."

Jesse doesn't argue or pull away like Saul thinks he might. Instead, he just snuggles up closer and tips his head against Saul's own. "There's two different groups makin' Blue Sky. These guys are good people."

"And the one I had the misfortune of meeting was part of the, uh, not-so-good group?"

Jesse nods. "I'm workin' my way into Brad's group. When they start to trust me I'll suggest a settin' up a buy with these other guys. Buck and Billy Ray'll bust 'em, and that's it."

Saul closes his eyes. He wants nothing more than to just forget about all this, leave it behind and start anew. But he knows the past will follow them like a shadow. Some days it might seem far behind, but it will never truly leave.

This is Jesse's world. He lived in it for years, even thrived for a while. If Jesse could survive Walter White, he can navigate the jungle of amateur drug dealers. And if not, well, they'll flip a coin over a map and see where it lands.

Jesse glides his thumb over Saul's knuckles. "Y'know, usually when you ask somebody to marry you, there's a ring involved," he says, a curl of flirtation in his voice.

"Most people don't propose right after a near-death situation."

Jesse chuckles. "Yeah, well, we're not 'most people.'"

Understatement of the year. "I do have something for you," Saul says, disentangling from Jesse's embrace.

"Oh yeah?"

Saul kneels next to the bedside table, pulls open a drawer and digs through the cluttered contents. It's underneath old papers and files that he finds it, the small black box he'd hidden here weeks ago. If Saul had died and Jesse found this...

Saul sits on the bed again, and Jesse crawls closer to examine the box.

"You didn't spend a lot of money, did you?" Jesse asks, his brow creased like he hopes the answer is no.

Saul places the box in Jesse's palm. "You're worth every penny."

That doesn't ease the distress on Jesse's face, but he lifts the lid and peers inside at the ring. He's speechless for a few moments, his lips slightly parted in wonder. When he finds his voice, he says, "How long have you had this?"

"I wanted to ask you on Christmas," Saul admits, "but it felt like a bit too much. And... Alright, I was kinda scared you'd say no."

Jesse tears his gaze from the ring to look at Saul with disbelief. "What? No way! Why the hell would I say no?"

Saul shrugs like he doesn't know how to answer that. "I'm lame jokes in a cheap suit," he says around a half-hearted laugh. "Why would you say yes?"

Jesse looks mortally wounded. "Yo, stop, you are so much more than that. You're compassion and strength and _awesome_ jokes and a heart filled with, like, so much love it scares the shit outta you. And, yeah, it _is_ scary to have somebody who would totally do, like, anything for you. Somebody who sees through all the bullshit you try to put up." Jesse swallows, his throat gone tight. "But don't you ever think for one second you don't deserve to be loved. I love you 'cause you're amazing, 'cause you taught me how to smile and laugh and live again, and screw however many times you've been married before 'cause this is the one that's gonna stick, yo."

That's sappy as fuck, but Saul doesn't care, not after tonight. "Man, I should get shot more often if it gets you to say stuff like that."

Jesse laughs, his smile wide and exuberant, as if his face might crack from joy. He reaches into the box and plucks the ring out between his long, thin fingers. The silver band glides with ease onto the third finger of his left hand.

"Fourth time's the charm, right?" Saul says before capturing Jesse's mouth underneath his own.

* * *

Saul bolts awake with his heart pounding like it might break free. Sweat covers his forehead. Panic seizes his chest, and he's breathing quick and hot into the darkness. He sits up in bed. His side screams in pain. He pushes a hand through his damp hair. He can still hear the squelch and crunch of the man's skull, taste the copper in the air. Death is burned into his mind's eye.

Jesse's sound asleep beside him. Saul slips out of bed. He finds his way to the bathroom and splashes water on his face, hoping to smother the memory of the dream that left him shaking. He dry-heaves over the sink for a moment, stomach roiling with empty nausea.

When Saul steps into the bedroom, Jesse's no longer asleep, instead sitting upright on the bed. Even in the darkness, Saul can see the concern and love etched on his face. Jesse reaches out for him, and Saul is more than happy to fall into his arms. "It's okay," Jesse murmurs. "I get 'em too."

It takes Saul a moment to remember that, oh yeah, Jesse killed someone too.

_Should I not worry that my drug-addicted partner doesn't seem to care whether he lives or dies? You should see his house. It's like skid row. He has actual hobos living there._

Saul shudders away from the memory and holds Jesse tighter. He doesn't need to ask how Jesse survived; he knows.

"Guess we got somethin' else in common, huh?" Saul says dryly.

Jesse doesn't laugh, just strokes Saul's hair and holds him until the shaking passes. He moves so they're lying down, and soon Saul's weary eyes close. When Saul wakes in terror, Jesse kisses him and tells him everything's okay, and Saul believes him.

In the morning, Saul wakes up to an empty bed. He really hopes the numbers on the clock are wrong. He crawls out of the warmth of the covers and makes his way down the stairs. Whatever painkillers he'd been given in the hospital are wearing off. He can feel the stitches in his side, and it's as if each movement rips his skin apart.

Jesse's in the kitchen cooking breakfast. Saul winds his arms around Jesse's tiny waist, nuzzles the back of his neck. Jesse startles a bit at the sudden touch, but immediately warms to it when he recognizes the familiar embrace.

"Mornin'," Jesse says. "You finally got to sleep okay?"

Saul mumbles what might be a yes into the curve of Jesse's shoulder. "Woke up late."

"Don't worry about it. I called in for you, got you a couple days off."

"You're the best."

Saul can't see Jesse's face, but he _knows_ Jesse's doing that cute little smile-and-blush thing he does when he's complimented. Jesse pokes at the bread in the pan with a spatula.

Saul surveys the kitchen countertops and notices a mixing bowl with a whisk sticking out. Inside is a creamy, white mixture. "What's the white stuff?"

Jesse laughs under his breath. "That's what's gonna make this French toast the bomb. Vanilla cream, yo. Just like my aunt used to make."

"Yeah? What's the occasion?"

"No occasion. Just thought I'd save you the trouble."

They share a comfortably quiet breakfast at the kitchen table, and Saul learns Jesse's French toast is indeed the bomb.

"You don't have to talk if you don't wanna," Jesse says, "but if you do, y'know, I'm here."

Saul nods. "I know." He wants to say there's nothing to talk about, but Jesse's offering an ear, a shoulder to cry on. Suck it up and accept the gesture.

A knock sounds on the front door. Jesse gets up to answer it, checks the peephole first before opening the door. "'Sup?"

Buck and Billy Ray stand on the other side. "Good, you're both home," Buck says. He gives Jesse an expectant look. "Can we?" Jesse lets them in, makes his way back to Saul. "Y'all holdin' up okay?"

Saul makes a grumbly noise. "Define 'okay.'"

Jesse huffs and lays his hands atop Saul's shoulders. "We'll be fine." It sounds like reassurance, a reminder to Saul more than anything else. Saul feels Jesse push a hand through the back of his hair.

Billy Ray smiles as if noticing something. "Finally gettin' hitched?"

Jesse glances down at his left hand. "Oh yeah! He, uh, he asked me last night." There's a smile in his voice, like he can't believe it himself.

"Well, that's great! Congrats, you two," Buck says, and he sounds like he means it. Maybe he does. Saul doesn't know what to believe about these guys anymore.

Billy Ray looks at Saul. "You mind if I borrow your fiancé for a bit?"

"Doesn't bother me," Saul says, delegating the answer to Jesse.

"Nah, it's cool." Jesse leads Billy Ray out the sliding glass doors to the back yard, leaving Saul alone with Buck.

Does Buck know about Saul's part in the burglary? He's probably not here to give condolences or hug it out, so, maybe? Saul swallows, guilt swelling in his chest.

Buck sits across from him at the table. "Got an ID on our John Doe. Thought you'd wanna know who he is"—he catches his mistake—"was."

Saul winces inwardly.

"Fella's name's Austin Merritt. Had a couple drug-related priors and ties to a local gang known as the White Death."

Saul makes a face. "So... White Supremacist group?"

Buck shakes his head. "'White Death' is a nickname for the great white shark. White sharks have no natural predators 'sides killer whales. They're at the top of the food chain."

Christ, how did they get mixed up in this shit again?

"He did some time in Nebraska State for trafficking, so he's no stranger to law enforcement."

Saul mulls all of this over. "Am I in danger? These guys aren't just gonna kick back and uncork a bottle of champagne when they find out I killed one of their own."

"How would they know it was you? Guy died in our house. Logic points at me or Billy bein' the one who did 'im in. We're keepin' a lot of the details under wraps, for your sake."

Saul feels a pang of guilt.

"Plus, there's a lot of infighting in gangs like this. They hear Merritt's dead, they'll figure it was a territory dispute or somethin'. Occupational hazard."

Saul isn't totally sure about that, but there's too many questions buzzing around in his brain right now. "He said he knew you guys were cops, and that you were looking into the Heisenberg case. Have you considered the possibility of a leak in your department? Someone who might look the other way if enough money was involved?"

"All our guys check out," Buck says. "If they could be bought, we would'a seen it."

Saul scratches his chin. "Well, there's no way this guy would've known about your research unless he had some sort of inside access. One of these Great Whites has their, uh, hooks in somebody in your department. Whether they're paying them off or threatening them is up for debate—my two cents, I see these guys as more of the threatening type—but either way, somebody's being bought."

After Buck and Billy Ray leave, Jesse calls into work so he can spend the day with Saul. "Just in case you need me," Jesse said, but Saul thinks it's because Jesse wants an excuse to treat Saul like he's made of glass. Which, okay, Saul's not saying he _isn't_, but he'd appreciate the benefit of the doubt, at least. On any other day, Saul would crack wise about how Jesse must be practicing for married life, but if Saul's honest he needs the comfort of Jesse's presence right now. A guy gets shot and kills someone, you expect him to have a couple issues.

Saul tells Jesse about Austin Merritt and the White Death. Jesse listens intently, and when Saul's finished he talks about his meeting with Brad and the existence of the Blue Sky gang. Then they switch gears and burn through Saul's Netflix queue, because they need a reminder of normalcy, of the life they're fighting for.

"You sure you don't wanna be wired?" Buck asks as Jesse's getting ready to leave that night.

"Yeah, let's hold off on that for a bit," Jesse says. "We're s'posed to cook, so I'm gonna be meetin' new people. I don't know how paranoid they're gonna be, but it's a pretty safe bet."

"That's putting it lightly," Saul says. "What's the conclusion these guys are gonna draw seein' 'Heisenberg' living his nice, normal life?" He waits for the answer, spreads his hands. "Police informant."

But Jesse's shaking his head. "Dude, look at me. I don't look like an informant. I look like a tweaker who's constantly lookin' over his shoulder, waitin' for the other shoe to drop."

Yeah, Jesse's definitely looked better. You can't fake the kind of exhaustion and terror in the kid's eyes. Saul's little ordeal probably hasn't helped Jesse's health either.

"You did negotiate for your cut of the profits, right?" Saul asks him. "I mean, tell me you didn't go about this like you had some sudden burst of philanthropy?"

Jesse's mouth scrunches into a frown, and he glances away.

"Aww, jeez, kid..." Saul can't be too upset, really, because negotiations are his bread and butter; Jesse's not as well-versed in the art. He ought to teach Jesse sometime; it's a useful skill to have. "Alright, it's not all gloom and doom, but they're not gonna let you out of their sight. They're gonna be suspicious."

Jesse scratches the back of his head. "Yeah, we're—we're not doin' a wire this time, right?" He glances at Buck and Billy Ray, seeking their support.

"No wires," Buck says, sounding disappointed about it. But the recording from the previous meet probably gave them something to use.

"You guys are gonna park across the street and keep an eye on him, right?" Saul asks. "This could all be a ruse to get him into their territory and, um, send him to Belize. I mean, look, he gave them time to set something up." Saul looks at Jesse. "How come you didn't ask to see their set-up last night?"

Jesse rubs a hand over his face and sighs. "Totally your fault, by the way," he says, glaring at Buck. "If you hadn't sent me that text sayin' you had some emergency, I wouldn't'a panicked."

Saul gapes at him. "You were—you were _worried_ about me?"

"Of fucking course I was worried about you," Jesse grumbles. "Jesus."

"Well, nothin's gonna happen to nobody tonight," Buck says. "I'll stay here with Saul. Billy Ray'll keep an eye on Jesse. If he sees anything suspicious, he'll call for backup. We good?"

Jesse nods. "We're good."

* * *

Jesse isn't sure what he was expecting when Brad leads the way to the university's parking lot, but he's surprised nevertheless. Maybe he thought the whole "cooking in an abandoned science lab" thing was a joke. Apparently not.

They park behind the under-renovations science building. The spot's hidden enough that it won't draw much suspicion, but Jesse figures that's not much of a problem here.

"Any cameras?" Jesse asks as they walk toward the building.

"The rest of our crew is already inside. They took 'em out when they got here."

"How big is your crew?"

"We're pretty self-contained. We've only got about five people now."

Shawn would have made six, Jesse thinks. They sneak around back, and Brad edges the door open with caution.

The inside of the building is almost pitch-black, save for a few flashlights and cell phones serving as spotlights. The blinds are covered with shades, Jesse surmises, to keep their activities hidden. He can see vague human shapes moving through the darkness as his eyes adjust to the lack of light.

"So, this is the lab," Brad says, like he's a real-estate agent giving a tour. "It's kinda small-scale, but it's the best we can do at the moment."

"You brought him?" a female voice asks with intrigue.

"Guys, say hello to Heisenberg."

Jesse gives a small wave to the adoring fans. He sees four people standing around the expanse of the lab, and he recognizes each of them from Brad's Facebook photo albums. "'Sup?" Jesse says. Mr. Smooth.

A reverent silence sweeps over the room for a moment before the same female voice says, "It's an honor to meet you." She moves closer, extends her hand. "I'm Eden. I'm in charge of supplies." Jesse accepts the handshake. Eden's about an inch taller than him, with wavy pastel pink hair hanging past her shoulders. She's wearing a white lab coat over her colorful clothes.

"_You're_ Heisenberg?" a familiar male voice exclaims. Jesse looks in the direction of the voice and recognizes Glasses—or George, as Brad had referred to him. "Man, why didn't you tell me in the first place?"

Jesse just rolls his eyes.

"You know each other?" Eden asks.

"We've, uh, we've met."

Brad clears his throat. "The two quiet ones are our head cooks, Doug and Savannah. Doug's a lab tech, so he has access to chemicals."

Jesse moves his way into the lab. Savannah whispers to Eden, "He's so pretty I want to cry."

Jesse smiles despite himself.

"Alright, Heisenberg's gonna cook with us tonight and show us how it's done. Whatever he says goes," Brad announces.

"First things first: how do you guys get your hands on your ingredients?" Jesse asks. "You're not stealin' or leavin' tracks, are you?"

Eden takes that one. "I'm a senior lab member. I can sign for chemical purchase process for obtaining chemicals is: a tech—that would be Doug—makes out an internal order. The Head of the Department signs it, then the Finance Officer makes out a formal order to our supplier. The delivery is signed for and held at the front office. Doug picks up the order and signs it out. All hazardous materials are kept under lock and key in a cupboard in a locked store room. Doug is one of few who has a key. Nothing hazardous is kept in the labs—it's all brought in from the prep room across campus in the fully functional science building."

Jesse leans against a lab table. "And nobody wonders why you guys are orderin' shit like phenylacetic acid and methylamine?"

"I have the Chem lab director by the balls," Eden says with a smile. "I found out he had an affair with a female student, and I'm absolutely using that to my advantage."

"So... blackmail?" Jesse lifts his eyebrows.

"It gets the job done," Eden says, shrugging.

Jesse rubs his eyes with the heel of his hand. "So, Brad said you guys have some sort of goal to reach?"

"You know how much college costs per year? $14,300. And that's just for public institutions," Savannah says. "Now imagine paying that four times over. That's $57,200 you owe before you even get a job utilizing that degree."

"That figure only includes tuition, room and board. Not taking into account the cost of food, medical expenses, car payments or repairs, and just the basic costs of living," Doug adds.

Jesse blinks a couple times. "So you're cookin' meth to pay for college?" It sounds ridiculous said out loud, but, really, is it any more ridiculous than cooking for the sole purpose of getting rich? At least these kids are doing it for a somewhat noble cause.

_Kids._

Jesse looks around at these young, hopeful faces and feels his heart break in his chest.

_Hearts and minds, right? Get 'em young and they're yours forever._

"Scholarships and grants are nice, but they don't pay for everything," George says. "And they're not a guarantee, y'know? Everybody wants 'em, so there's more competition."

"Most of our parents are too poor to pay for college out of pocket," Savannah says, "but not poor enough that we get need-based aid. I don't wanna leave that kind of financial burden with them. And if my sister gets accepted next year?"

Jesse holds his hands up to ward off the rationalizations. "Look, you don't have to justify it to me. I get it, alright? But let's get one thing straight: after you hit whatever your goal is, you get out. I know a guy who knows another guy who can take your money and put it in viable stocks. An investment, or whatever. I don't care what you do, just... don't do this." His voice shakes around the words. "I'm only alive 'cause I got, like, stupidly lucky. But it sure as hell wasn't for free. So I'll help you cook and meet your quota, but after that? We quit."

No one argues with him.

* * *

Despite their age, these kids seem to know their stuff when it comes to making meth. It's not necessarily a cook; it's a synthesis, but they're still first-year chemistry students, so there's room for improvement. They understand the science enough to keep up with Jesse's occasional corrections and alterations to their recipe. But when Jesse steps in for a hands-on demonstration, his hands shake so badly he just _can't_. No one asks him to demonstrate after that.

It takes a couple hours, but eventually they complete the process. Jesse inspects the finished product like a jeweller examining a gem. "Damn, your crystals ain't bad. How come you use food coloring? This is pure glass, yo."

"Brand recognition?" Doug says. "It's not always guaranteed the impurities formed during a chemical reaction'll yield a blue color. We dye it, basically, to capitalize on the popularity of yours."

Jesse isn't sure how to feel about that. There's a small part of him that's proud he had a hand in creating something phenomenal, but most of him just feels overwhelming shame.

"People want blue meth now instead of clear or white?"

"Well, yeah, sort of. I mean, it's definitely more popular."

The team divvies up the crystals into tiny baggies. "What do you guys know about the White Death?" Jesse asks, switching gears.

George loses a bit of color. "How do _you_ know about them?"

"You think I wouldn't know who my competition is?"

"They're pretty bad _hombres_, Heisenberg."

"Yeah, so I've heard." Jesse tugs at the sleeves of his Tyvek suit. Too familiar. He blocks out the memories. Not the time to go traipsing through the past. "You ever get mixed up with a guy named Austin Merritt?"

"Mean-looking blond dude? He was one of their heavy-hitters. Knocked us around a couple'a times for our product."

Jesse gulps. "Well, you don't gotta worry about him anymore. Dude's dead."

Five sets of eyes widen like dinner plates. "For real?" George gasps.

"Did you..." Brad makes hand gestures that Jesse thinks are supposed to insinuate something.

Jesse decides not to answer that. "What else you know about him?"

"He did some time in Nebraska State," Brad says. "Him and his crew kept other gangs from cornering the market."

"By bustin' heads?"

"Pretty much, yeah. Sometimes he'd rat out other gangs who encroached on his territory. 'I saw a drug deal goin' down off Pacific and South 74th,' stuff like that. Got some guys arrested that way."

"Was he, like, a snitch?"

"Nah, just a dude tryin' to corner the market."

Whoa, hold the phone. Jesse freezes, coldness seeping into his bones as the realization sinks in. "The first time we met," he says, looking at George and Brad, "the cops showed up, like, right after you guys left." Jesse thought they'd placed they call, but he'd been wrong. "It was him, wasn't it?"

"Could'a been, yeah. Or one of the other White Death guys."

"I think I get it now," Jesse says, mostly to himself than anyone else. He starts pacing the floor. "Merritt sees us, and, I dunno, maybe he's after you guys all along, or he thinks I'm some new gang leader or whatever. Point is, he makes the call. Cops show up, you guys are gone, so I get arrested. Now maybe Merritt watches all this, wantin' to make sure I don't get out on bail or anything. But he sees they let me go"—Jesse amends his story on the fly—"'cause my lawyer rocks, and he gets suspicious. So he follows me. For a while, I've felt like somebody's lurkin' in the bushes keepin' an eye on me. I think he was there, tryin' to figure out who I am."

Fear crosses their faces as they see what he's getting at: if Merritt had been stalking Jesse, were they being stalked as well?

"But he's dead though, right?"

"Yeah, but these dudes are like the heads of a hydra," Jesse says, echoing Saul's words. "There's no tellin' how many others are out there." He stares at each of their frightened faces. "Be careful, alright? I've lost too many people 'cause of this shit." He's starting to sound like a walking D.A.R.E ad. Tone it down. "Just take care of yourselves, okay?"

* * *

When Jesse walks through the door to the house, Saul greets him with a warm embrace that's tender and clingy all at once; Jesse doesn't mind.

He tells Buck and Billy Ray about the cooking process and what he learned from the group. They nod and ask questions every now and then. When Jesse gets to the part about Austin Merritt, they pull up in surprise.

"You think he was followin' you?" Buck asks.

Jesse nods. "He had to be. If he was the one who placed the call about me and the guys, he would'a wanted to keep an eye on me. When he saw I got out so fast with no hearin' or nothin', well, wouldn't you think somethin' was up?"

"He said he recognized the dog," Saul chimes in, "which means he had to at least scope the place once or twice to see Bark Lee. Then, I don't know, maybe he backed off when he realized you guys were cops. But once he finds out you two got your noses in the Heisenberg file"—he spreads his hands—"he decides to pay you a visit."

"The question is," Billy Ray says, "how'd he know about that file? Saul raised the idea of a leak in the department, which is a possibility."

"Maybe he hacked into your computers?" Jesse offers.

Buck shakes his head. "This feller was a few fries short of a Happy Meal. No way."

"If he has an inside source with the police, odds are he speaks with that source directly. You think he would've called 911 and risked getting some random dispatch to pick up Jesse?" Saul says.

Jesse wonders about that. "Gilligan. That was the name of the cop who arrested me. And he was there at your house the other night when Saul wasted the dude."

Out of the corner of his eye, Jesse notices Saul wince a bit at the terminology.

"Would he have any reason to be at the scene?" Saul asks. "I called you directly. Wouldn't you have contacted somebody higher up to work the case and do all the paperwork?"

Buck nods. "I did. But it's not uncommon for other officers to show up too."

Jesse scratches his chin. "It's worth lookin' into this dude though, right? I mean, he seems to be a common denominator in all this shit."

"We'll see what we can do. We don't got a lot of hard evidence, so we're limited," Billy Ray says.

Jesse stifles a yawn. He forgets it's almost 2 a.m. until his body reminds him to go the fuck to sleep.

Saul rubs a hand over Jesse's back. "Go to bed, kid. I'll be up soon."

Jesse shakes his head. "I don't wanna forget anything."

"A good night's sleep oughta refresh the ol' brain," Buck says. "You did good."

"Alright, peace," Jesse says, pushing away from the table. "See ya tomorrow... or whenever."

He takes a cold shower to keep himself awake a bit longer, at least until Saul joins him in the bed. Jesse feels Saul press warm and solid against the line of his back. He snuggles into the embrace, lets Saul wrap his arms around him.

Jesse tries not to think about the day's events now that he's home safe, but he's never been very good at compartmentalizing. Today was the first time he's cooked in about four months, and his last cook was under less than ideal circumstances. A nagging feeling in the back of his mind tells him Saul was right, that this is going to leave a scar.

These should not be the thoughts of someone who's just gotten engaged. This is not right, goddamn it.

Saul breathes hot over the back of Jesse's neck. "Jesse?"

"Hmm?"

"I was just thinkin'... It's been a while since we've had an actual date, y'know? I kinda miss takin' you out. Maybe we could do something this weekend? Go somewhere, take a little vacation. Just us. There's this pretty ritzy retreat in Colorado I had my eye on, but—"

"You know I'd love to," Jesse says, rolling onto his other side to look at Saul, "but we can't. We gotta lay low and just stay home and go to work 'til all this is over. C'mon, baby, you know better."

Saul breathes a sigh. "Yeah, I know, I just figured if you thought it was a good idea it wouldn't seem so stupid."

Jesse huffs a laugh. "It's not stupid. We can totally do that when things go back to normal again." He brushes Saul's hair aside and kisses his mouth. Saul's kiss in return involves bringing his hand to the curve of Jesse's cheek and crushing their mouths closer. Jesse's never going to get over that, how Saul kisses like it's survival.

When their mouths are their own again, Saul asks, "You think we'll ever have kids?"

Jesse's eyes snap open. That was _so_ not where he saw this conversation going. "What?"

Saul looks wounded, like he just witnessed someone kicking a puppy. "I mean, is it—is that something you think about at all, maybe in the distant future?"

"I used to think about it all the time," Jesse admits. "A family, a future." He wets his lips.

"'Used to'?"

"Bein' in that hole for six months... Dreamin' didn't do me much good." Dreams only reminded Jesse he had absolutely zero control over his life, that they were merely illusions created out of loneliness.

"But you changed your mind, didn't you? When you came here you wanted me to find Brock, which, as horrible of an idea as that was, I thought it meant you might want kids someday."

"Never said I didn't."

Saul's brow creases. "With me?"

"Pretty sure you're gonna be involved, yeah."

Saul smiles, though Jesse can tell he's trying his best not to.

"I know people'd probably laugh if they knew I just wanna get married and have kids, but they don't get that this life is worth fighting for. 'Cause they've never had to, y'know? I wanna spend my life with you and have a family, but we can't do any of that 'til we're safe."

They could never raise children with the constant threat of arrest or gang violence hanging over their heads. They could never sleep soundly waiting for the other shoe to drop. They have to vanquish it for good.

Saul's got that "charmed as fuck" smile going on. "I love you, kid."

Jesse murmurs, "I know," before cuddling closer and kissing him.


	15. How Many More Times

Jesse yawns himself awake around four in the morning. He stretches out and realizes he's alone in the bed. He sits up, rubs his eyes, and looks for Saul. The bathroom door's wide open, showcasing the empty interior. Jesse kicks his way free of the blankets and pads down the stairs.

There's a bit more light downstairs, but not much. Jesse turns around when he reaches the end of the staircase. Saul's sitting at the kitchen table pouring himself a glass of whiskey from a decanter. It doesn't appear to be his first of the evening.

Jesse swallows. "You alright?" Because lone, late-night drinking is clearly evidence of a healthy mind.

Saul turns his head and raises his glass as if beckoning Jesse to join him. "Never been better."

Jesse moves closer, sits in the chair across from Saul. Saul pushes his glass toward Jesse with a finger. Jesse just stares at it for a moment before looking at Saul. "You didn't take any painkillers, did you?"

"I don't wanna die, Jesse. I just wanna get drunk." Saul drags the glass back and takes a sip.

"So, how do you feel? Like, pain-wise."

"You should probably cancel my UFC fight."

Jesse smiles despite himself. That sense of humor will definitely help him through this.

Saul sets his glass down, breathes out a chuckle. "Look at this. Talk about a cliché."

"Sometimes clichés work," Jesse says with a shrug, because he'd rather Saul drown his sorrows in alcohol than anything harder. Seriously, when did Jesse become a walking anti-narcotic ad?

Saul sits back in his chair and fixes Jesse with a long, curious look. "How'd you get it out of your head?"

Jesse thinks about his own torment, the ghosts in his head; Saul doesn't deserve to be haunted like this. "You don't." Jesse takes the glass and swallows the remainder of amber liquid. He pours until the glass is full and slides it over to Saul.

They sit together in an easy silence, passing the glass back and forth without a word. Jesse understands that Saul needs this, and he's willing to help Saul carry whatever burden he's dealing with. Because Saul carried Jesse when he showed up here out of his head with grief.

Jesse glances out the window, notices a soft glow radiating from Buck and Billy Ray's house. "You think they're still up?"

Saul doesn't divert his gaze from the drink. "I don't know how they can live there."

Jesse tries not to think about how he might feel in Saul's place, if 6353 Juan Tabo Boulevard was next door, a tangible thing he had to see every day when he woke up and every night before bed. An ever-present phantom in the back yard.

But Jesse's own home wasn't devoid of ghosts either...

"They don't have a choice."

"Man, property values on this street are gonna go way down, huh?" Saul chuckles to himself and takes another long swallow.

Jesse wants to say something, remind him he doesn't have to be blasé or funny all the time, that he can break down if he needs to, but it won't do any good. Jesse gets up and moves toward the sliding glass doors. Faint music drifts in from the next yard when Jesse pushes the door aside.

"Guess they're up." He looks at Saul. "You mind if I drop in for a second?"

Saul smiles, warm around the edges. "I'll be fine, kid. Always have been."

Jesse ignores the obvious lie and moves for the front door. It's chilly outside, but Jesse doesn't think he'll be outside for very long. He hurries across the sidewalk and smiles at Bark Lee, who's curled up in the doghouse with his head sticking out. Jesse decides to use the front door this time.

Billy Ray lets him inside. "I thought you were goin' to bed?"

"Saul can't sleep," Jesse says simply.

Buck and Billy Ray give him that solemn, respectful silence for a moment. "How's he holdin' up?" Billy Ray asks.

"Could be worse," Jesse says. "Could be better." He side-eyes the blotchy hardwood near the back door that's a shade or two darker than the rest. Jesse's not sure if he wants to sit down and face it or turn his back to it.

"Self-medicating?"

"Of course." Jesse opts to sit on the couch. That's when he sees the faded stain on the wall and feels his heart in his throat. "Jack Daniel's."

"Could be worse," Buck says with a shrug.

"Could be better."

"He'll move past it," Buck reassures Jesse.

Jesse nods. "I've been thinkin'... After last night, one more cook should yield about a pound of product. I could raise the idea of sellin' it to these White Death guys, since they're the ones stealin' it anyway. One pound for thirty-five large. We set up a meet, they make the deal: boom. Two birds with one stone."

"You think they'll go for that?"

"These guys don't know jack about the business end. Plus, they need the money. Thirty-five split six ways is almost six grand each. I doubt they've made that much at once before. Greed always takes you down in the end."

Buck scratches his chin—or what was once his chin but is now only beard. "When's the next cook?"

"I dunno. I gotta set somethin' up with them."

"Glad you got a plan. We're gonna look into Merritt's phone records. If he had contact with Gilligan, we'll find it. Maybe we can find some of Merritt's other associates."

Jesse stares at a mounted bass on the wall. The fish offers no answers. Figures.

"You think Saul might feel better with Bark Lee around?" Billy Ray asks after a moment. "Considerin' they saved each other and all."

And that's how Jesse ends up bringing Bark Lee through the front door of the house about ten minutes later. Saul's vacated the kitchen table, so Jesse and Bark Lee climb the stairs and find Saul in the bedroom. The lights are out, save for the blacklight on the wall, but Jesse doubts Saul's asleep yet.

"I brought you a buddy," Jesse whispers as Bark Lee hops onto the edge of the bed. The pup paces in circles until he finds the perfect spot to lie down.

Saul pushes himself up on his elbows and smiles when he sees the dog. "Hey, Vicious." Bark Lee lays his head on his front paws. The picture of innocence.

Jesse kneels at the foot of the bed and scratches the dog behind the ears. "Who's a good buddy? Yeah, you are." Bark Lee makes a sound of gratitude. "Look at that face. You're such a pretty puppy."

Saul huffs a laugh. "Not sure he's either of those things."

"You call me 'Pretty Boy,' and I haven't been a 'boy' for almost ten years. And the jury's still out on the 'pretty' thing." Jesse's still petting Bark Lee's head, grinning to himself at the way the dog enjoys the affection.

"What jury? This is a bench trial, and I find you pretty as hell."

Bark Lee breathes a little loudly, and Jesse's absolutely calling that a sigh. "The dog fuckin' _sighed_ at that joke."

"But you found it clever and charming?"

"Yeah, let's go with that." Jesse climbs into bed alongside Saul, tucks the blankets tighter around them like a cocoon. "You think you'll sleep a lil' better now?"

Saul snuggles into the warmth of Jesse's chest. Jesse breathes in the scent of shampoo in his hair, the alcohol on his breath. "We'll see."

* * *

Jesse arranges a meet with Brad at the tacky '90s bar the next day. He spots Eden and Savannah at a table near the window. Jesse pulls up a chair and joins them. The girls stare at him as if he's just sprouted an extra head.

"What? Am I early?"

"What are you doing here?" Savannah asks.

Jesse's brow furrows. "Brad didn't send you?"

"No?"

Jesse looks around for Brad. "Huh. Well, it's good you're here, 'cause I had some questions about the cook and supplies and—"

"No talking business until Brad gets here," Eden interrupts before taking a sip of a fruity drink in the middle of the table.

Jesse figures that's fair. Odds are he just barged in on some sort of platonic date as an unpleasant reminder of the darkest part of their lives. He can afford them a few more minutes of normalcy.

Savannah glances over at Jesse. "What happened to your face?" she asks in a low voice.

"Oh my God, you can't just ask people that!" Eden hisses in a whisper.

"My scumbag ex-partner sold me out to some psychos who made me cook for them." Blunt and to the point, but Jesse figures bluntness is the way to go here. "You ever seen that movie _Midnight Express_?" She shakes her head. Jesse silently bemoans today's youth. "Well, it's about this dude who gets busted smuggling drugs overseas and goes to this super-shitty Turkish prison and eventually gets out. I was gonna compare the place they were holdin' me to the prison in the movie, but since you haven't seen it..." He shrugs into silence.

Savannah toys with her thick, black braid of hair. "They tortured you?"

Jesse nods. "I tried to escape once. They killed my girlfriend and made me watch."

Her eyes widen in horror.

"She had a little boy. Eight years old. I didn't try to escape again."

Savannah hears the subtext there. "So how'd you get out?"

"That ex-partner? He came back. Killed 'em all with some sort of machine gun and let me go. I guess he felt bad about what he did, maybe." He'll never understand why Mr. White came back for him, if it was guilt or revenge or something transcending all that. "Doesn't matter. It was a huge stroke of luck. I wouldn't count on something like that if I were you."

Savannah notices the ring on his finger. "You're engaged?"

Jesse nods and can't help the smile that spreads on his face. "Yeah."

"How long have you known each other?"

Jesse counts the time on his fingers. "Just over two years." He's about to say more when he spots Brad walk through the front door of the lounge.

"This a group meeting now?" Brad asks, pulling up a chair and squeezing his way between Jesse and Eden.

"They were already here," Jesse says with a shrug. He leans in, all business. "Alright, so I'm thinking one more cook will get us to a pound's worth of product. You guys ever had that much at once?"

They shake their heads. "We can't _sell_ that much at once," Eden explains. "It makes more sense—at least for our own safety—to sell in small amounts. We don't know anyone who deals in bulk."

Jesse spreads his hands. "What about these, uh, White Death guys? They seem pretty interested."

"Why would they buy from us when they could just kick our asses and take it for free?" Brad asks.

Savannah drags the pink, fruity concoction nearer and takes a long sip.

"Yeah, _your_ asses. They don't know I'm in with you guys now, and I think my reputation precedes me. One of their guys just wound up with his head smashed. Not sayin' I did it, but as long as they believe I did..."

"How much?" Eden asks.

"Thirty-five large?" That's what he charged Tuco on their first deal, and the popularity of Heisenberg's blue meth ought to have raised the street price a bit since then. This'll be a steal. "So how 'bout we cook next week, then I'll—"

"Try next _month_," Eden says. "We're out of methylamine and PAA. I can't order more so soon without raising suspicion."

Jesse really doesn't want to drag this shit out much longer. Saul's already cracking from his ordeal; another month of uncertainty about Jesse's future would probably burn a hole through his stomach lining. "Alright, you still have the supplies for a pseudo cook?"

Savannah makes a face. "Seriously?"

"We make poison for people who don't care. You really think they're gonna notice the difference? Do these guys even cook their own shit, or are they like the Milli Vanilli of drug dealers?"

Brad laughs. "Nice."

Jesse hides a smile.

"He's got a point," Brad says to the girls. "And thirty-five split six ways is almost six grand each."

"Only, like, twenty-five percent of the batch is gonna be pseudo. Nobody'll notice."

Eden and Savannah share a glance before looking at Jesse. "How're we supposed to make this deal? We can't exactly call these guys and set up a meet," Savannah says.

"You know where their turf is?"

"They've got pretty much everything on the other side of I-80," Brad explains. "Walk around South Omaha for a while and you'll probably run into them. I guess they were trying to expand their turf when they found us."

"Okay, so I just hang around South Omaha 'til I grab their attention. Then I set up a meet."

Another shared glance between the girls and Brad. "One of us should go with you," Brad says. "I mean, don't take this the wrong way, but who's to say you won't set up a meet, leave us in the dark, and then take the money for yourself?"

Jesse frowns. "'Cause that'd be a dick move." But he gets it. He shows up out of the blue and pulls some _Dangerous Minds_ shit about wanting to help them make better meth, yeah, of course they're gonna be suspicious. "But, alright. It'll be nice to have some company."

Brad drags his phone out of his pocket. "I'll ask George. He knows the area pretty well."

"Bitchin'." Jesse looks around the table for any opposition. "We done?"

Brad nods. "We're done." He glances at the girls. "Right?"

"See you at the next cook," Eden says.

* * *

Jesse's next cook falls on his first day back at work, which Saul does his best not to complain about, but he's a little nervous about being alone eight hours straight then surrendering Jesse to the ramifications of a cook. Jesse picks up on Saul's anxiety—because he's an awesome boyfriend/fiancé—and reminds him, "You won't be totally alone; you got Bark Lee," which is true. But Bark Lee can't protect Saul from the demons in his own head. Then again, neither can Jesse.

Saul busies himself with household chores to keep his mind from wandering. Every now and then he gets a cute, flirty text from Jesse. And occasionally he gets something dirtier, like, _**im sexually frustrated and it's all your fault**_, which makes him smile. Saul attempts to bring some normalcy back to his life by fixing dinner. He snaps a quick photo of the biscuits fresh out of the oven, types, _**red lobster got nothin' on me**_, and sends it off to Jesse. Saul gets a reply from Jesse while he's cooking the main course: _**awwwww yeahhh sweet damn get in me u saucy bastards**_.

Saul doesn't understand how one person can be so perfect.

He's got dinner ready on the table when Jesse comes through the front door. Jesse shrugs out of his hoodie, tosses it over the arm of the couch. "Yo, heard you got some fuckin' fine-ass biscuits for me." He moves closer, sees the piled-high plates of pasta on the dining table. "Dude, you're the best."

Saul smiles at the compliment. "I guess you're hungry?"

"We were hella busy; I had to eat lunch outta the vending machines." Jesse pulls a chair out from the table, but Saul stops him with gentle hands.

"Are you still sexually frustrated?" Saul asks, lifting an eyebrow.

Jesse laughs and bites his lower lip as he stares at the way Saul's hand curls around his hip. "Why don't you look for yourself?"

Saul gets Jesse against the nearest wall and swallows his cock. Jesse moans, thumps his head back and pushes a hand through Saul's hair to guide him. But Saul's well-versed in making Jesse come, and it never takes very long when he's got Jesse's dick in his mouth. It feels like it's been a while since they've done this for each other; the past few days haven't exactly been conducive for their sex drives. But Saul thinks it's worth trying now, and Jesse's so squirmy and vocal Saul thinks he's doing something right.

Jesse gasps a choked sound and clutches at Saul's t-shirt with his free hand. He pushes his hips forward, groans through his teeth as he lets himself go. Saul swallows him down, sucks him through the aftershocks and licks his curves and ridges clean. Jesse's shaking under Saul's mouth, murmuring soft appreciation in breathy whispers. Saul lingers at the head of his cock for a moment before letting him drop free. He doesn't need to ask if it was good; the way Jesse's chest heaves and his body slumps against the wall says enough.

Halfway through dinner, Jesse hops up from the table to answer a knock at the door. He checks the peephole first—Saul's not going to miss the paranoid suspicion after all this is through—and opens the door. "Yo."

Buck and Billy Ray are on the other side. "Didn't know y'all were in the middle of supper," Buck says. "Should we come back?"

"Nah, it's cool. Haven't heard from you guys in a while," Jesse says, letting them inside. "Any news?"

Bark Lee trots down the staircase at the sound of his master's voice. Buck scratches him behind the ears and sits on the couch. Bark Lee jumps up alongside him. "Well, we looked into Merritt's phone records. Turns out he placed a couple calls to Gilligan's cell over the past few months."

"Fuckin' called it," Jesse boasts. He sits at the table and grabs his plate, turns his chair so he's facing Buck and Billy Ray.

"Thing is, Gilligan's awful tight-lipped. We asked him about it, but he ain't sayin' nothin," Billy Ray says. "But I think he's hidin' somethin', somethin' he's afraid to tell us."

"Odds are he's not just protecting himself," Saul offers. "These people probably threatened to hurt his family if he said anything."

"We just can't prove it," Buck grouses.

"Yet," Jesse says around a mouthful of noodles. "Once we bring these guys down, he might feel safe enough to confess."

"Speakin' of which, how's things on your end?"

"The final cook's scheduled for tonight. Then I'm gonna set up a buy with the White Death crew," Jesse says.

"You know how to contact them?"

"Brad says just hang around in South Omaha for a while. I'm bringing one of his guys who knows the area just in case. I'd suggest bein' wired for this one, but your surveillance vehicle might stick out too much."

Buck scoffs. "The point of surveillance is to blend in, kid."

"Plus," Billy Ray says, "they'll want to investigate why you two are hangin' around their turf. And if they think you killed Merritt, well, obviously you ain't workin' with the law."

"Alright, cool. Whatever you think is best."

Saul breathes a quiet sigh of relief. He doesn't want Jesse meeting these guys without some sort of protection or back-up.

Jesse takes another bite. "I'll text you with details about the meet."

They seem to take the hint. "Good work. We'll let you finish your supper," Buck says, rising to leave.

Jesse locks the door behind the two once they're gone. "It trips me out every time they say that, 'cause I thought only old people called it 'supper.'"

Saul laughs.

"So, what made you wanna make dinner tonight?" Jesse asks, dropping back into the chair and stuffing nearly an entire biscuit into his mouth.

"Just thought I'd climb back on the horse, so to speak. I go back to work tomorrow, so I might as well get back into the routine, y'know?" He's not used to being coddled; he's had to survive on his own for quite a while. At this point in his life, growing accustomed to being doted on seems counterproductive.

Jesse smiles. "That's awesome. I'm glad you're feelin' better." He takes another huge bite of pasta. "So, hey, next time you enter one of those food fairs or whatever, maybe we could make somethin' together? 'Cause, like, everything you cook is dope. Straight-up. And I wanna help."

Saul loves that idea, that they can plan something for the future. Because as much as he forgets sometimes, this tense period of unbalance and fear won't last forever. They'll get married and make a safe, happy home.

"I'd be honored, kid."

Jesse doesn't bother taking a shower or changing clothes after dinner, since he's just going to come home from the cook and rinse off anyway. Hot showers make Jesse sleepy, and he doesn't need to doze off while making meth.

They spend the next few hours on the couch, watching TV with Bark Lee curled in their laps. Saul doesn't know how he'll fare in Jesse's absence tonight. He's a little worried—nighttime is usually when his sense of security abandons him—but he's not going to say anything about it. Jesse can't afford to cancel the cook, not when they're so close to being finished with this mess forever.

Jesse slides off of the couch around 11:30. "I gotta go, babe. You gonna be okay?"

"Yeah, of course. I got Bark Lee, right?" Saul pats the dog's head.

Jesse smiles, but Saul thinks he sees a hint of pity there. "Yo, y'know you can wait up for me if you want?"

"No, no, c'mon, I'll be fine," Saul says with a flippant handwave. "Don't worry about me."

Jesse takes his word for it and gives him a quick kiss before rushing out the door; Saul wishes it had lasted just a bit longer.

* * *

Jesse spends the final cook in a solemn, observant silence. The kids occasionally crack jokes, converse about an upcoming exam or a movie they saw. Jesse wants to say something to them, to warn them about what's coming, but he doesn't. He doesn't know if it would change anything. Probably not. Buck and Billy Ray have already made too many exceptions for Jesse and Saul. Turning a blind eye to these kids in exchange for arresting the White Death members would be a step too far.

Maybe if Saul hadn't been shot, Jesse would try a little harder to keep these kids—he needs to stop thinking of them as kids, because they're _not_—away from the hammer of justice. But almost losing the love of his life—for what would be the fourth time—opened Jesse's eyes and reminded him of Mr. White's seemingly-cruel words in the lab on the night that changed everything: _When you make it Gale versus me, or Gale versus Jesse, Gale loses. Simple as that. I mean, really, what did you expect me to do, just simply roll over and allow you to murder us?That I wouldn't take measures—extreme measures—to defend myself?_

Jesse would lay down his life for Saul's. And, if push comes to shove, he would lay down yours too.

* * *

Saul's out of whiskey. This simply will not do. He'd drank the last of it the night before but forgot to have Jesse pick up more. Saul's not facing down the nightmares alone. The pain-killers—as nice as they are—aren't potent enough to knock him out until the morning. They only make him tired enough to doze off into a panic-laden nocturnal journey. But alcohol gives him a dreamless sleep, which is exactly what he needs.

He lets Bark Lee outside into the back yard before he leaves, locks the front and back doors. Saul hasn't been to his car since the night it all went wrong. The tape and the gloves feel like they're too exposed, as if there's a neon arrow pointing to the trunk and his guilt.

Saul thinks he ought to find another hiding place. You can't search someone's home without a warrant, but a vehicle search has so much more wiggle room. He looks left, looks right, and sticks the key into the lock. He lifts the trunk lid and peers inside.

The black plastic garbage bag is gone.

Saul stares into the trunk, his mind in a deep freeze. He blinks once, twice, trying to make sense of it. Where did the bag go? Had he moved it? Saul doesn't remember doing that, but who knows? He's been on a mix of pain-killers and booze for the last couple days. Memories get hazy.

Saul closes his eyes, seeking a way out. Maybe he moved the bag into the back seat. He doesn't know why he would do that, but, okay, he'll play along. Saul shuts the trunk lid and unlocks the door to the back seat.

Empty.

Saul feels a sinking feeling in his chest. He checks the passenger side, then the driver's side. Nothing. The car's impeccably clean. No bag. No gloves. No tape.

Saul rushes the best he can inside the house, climbs the stairs and starts in the bedroom. He checks all the obvious places—the closet, under the bed, the night table drawers, the bureau—and comes up empty in his search. He even looks in the upstairs bathroom toilet tank. No dice.

Where the fuck did that bag go?

His heart hammers in his chest. There has to be a logical explanation for this, something he can't see yet. He wouldn't have hidden it downstairs where Buck and Billy Ray would have access to it. In a fleeting moment of hope, he goes across the hall and searches through the guest room. But he leaves empty-handed.

Saul knows he wouldn't hide it someplace he wouldn't remember. Because, truth be told, he never really intended on destroying the tape, just holding onto it until he could properly read Buck and Billy Ray's motives. It would be hidden somewhere he could easily access to return the tape when the time was right. The gloves he might have destroyed, but, Christ, Saul can't remember _anything_. And Jesse's been with him the whole time; if Saul had some sort of sleepwalking incident, Jesse would definitely have mentioned it.

Another possibility starts gnawing at him.

Okay, let's assume the police saw the blood trail leading to the car and opened the trunk due to reasonable suspicion.

Why didn't anyone—Buck, Billy Ray, or any cop he talked to, for that matter—mention the gloves or the tape? Granted, the blood on the gloves was Saul's own, but it still doesn't add up. Suspicions would have been, to put it mildly, aroused.

Jesse couldn't have taken it. He doesn't know the tape and gloves were _in_ the trunk to begin with. And Jesse couldn't have discovered the contents of the trunk because he didn't drive Saul's car.

So that leads him back to where he started: where the fuck did that bag go?

The only answer Saul can think of is that he's hidden it somewhere he can't remember. Or destroyed it altogether.

Why is this happening to them?

* * *

When Jesse gets home, all the lights are out. Saul's in bed, lying on his stomach to keep pressure off of his wound. Jesse assumes he's asleep and quietly grabs a change of clothes before heading into the shower.

Underneath the hot spray of water, Jesse lets a few tears escape. Channeling Heisenberg, puffing himself up like the blowfish, being around the chemicals and machinery and the drug that made his life hell for years... It's exhausting, physically and mentally. He reminds himself that it's over for now, that he only has to psych himself up two more times, but it still takes him about fifteen minutes to stop shaking and normalize his breathing.

Jesse shuts off the water, dries himself off and gets dressed. He opens the door and sees Saul sitting upright in the bed with a hand tangled in his hair and his knees drawn up to his chin. "You alright?" Jesse murmurs, moving closer.

Saul raises his head, looks at him with sleepless eyes. He doesn't say no, but he doesn't have to.

Jesse's at his side immediately, like a doting mother hen. He sits beside Saul on the bed and wraps him in his arms. "It's okay. Sorry I got home late. I'm here now though. We're gonna be fine." He pushes a hand through Saul's hair, feels the dampness on his brow. "It's almost over."

Saul sighs and wilts like a dying flower in Jesse's embrace. He lets out a soft chuckle. "You're too good to me, y'know that?"

Jesse holds him tighter. "No way."

"None of my exes would'a put up with this."

"'S probably why they're your exes," Jesse says with a smirk. He kisses Saul's cheek. "Put up with what, exactly?"

Saul shrugs his shoulders. "I drink too much. I have nightmares. I'm a mess."

"Yeah, how dare you get shot. Prick."

Saul half-smiles. "Y'know all my marriages ended 'cause the wife wanted out? I—I never cheated or asked for a divorce or anything like that. And I think I get why. It's 'cause I'm"—Saul gestures in a way that's supposed to mean something—"like this. I'm weak. I always made the mistake of showing weakness, and I guess they never truly felt safe with me. How could you, y'know, when the person who's supposed to be strong and protect you is just as fragile as you are?"

"I feel safe with you," Jesse says, because he does.

Saul wraps an arm around him.

"And, dude, I'd be a little freaked if you _weren't_ a total mess after killin' somebody," Jesse adds. "Mr. White probably slept just fine."

They let that one hang in the air.

Jesse decides to keep rambling. "Besides, you took care of me when I was a pain in the ass headcase. It's your turn now."

"To be a pain in the ass?" Saul asks around a chuckle.

"Totally." Jesse laughs. "And maybe when this is all over you can be other things in my ass."

Saul cracks a smile. "B minus."

"Are you gradin' my jokes now?"

"What? I say it's encouraging. Positive reinforcement."

Jesse pushes a hand underneath Saul's t-shirt, fingers trailing over the curve of his spine. "Guess I'll start gradin' our sex then, if it's so encouraging."

"Whoa, hey, that's—that's a little unfair, considering I'm, y'know, wounded in action." Saul lays a hand over his side, as if Jesse wouldn't know what he's referring to.

"Y'should'a thought of that before you started gradin' my jokes," Jesse says, wriggling his way underneath the blankets.

Saul crawls in alongside him and lays his head on Jesse's chest. Jesse slides an arm underneath Saul's back, holding him close. "Hopefully you'll grade on a curve," Saul murmurs, already fading.

Jesse watches Saul drift into a sound sleep and feels something settle in his chest. This is the life he's dreamed of. He wants Saul's face to be the first thing he sees every morning. Jesse's not letting anyone or anything stand in the way of that.


	16. Thank You

The meet takes place in the grimy heart of South Omaha. The grass is sun-baked and withered, growing in thick bushes between buildings and in sparse patches between the crevices in the concrete. Graffiti decorates most of the boarded-up businesses and warehouses along the road. Across the street are train tracks harboring an inactive train, each car boasting elaborate tags. The ground is cracked and uneven. Every abandoned lot has scant vegetation in its death throes.

Jesse glances around surreptitiously for Buck and Billy Ray, but he knows he won't spot them. Neither will the White Death crew.

"So, this looks...awful," Jesse says, leaning against an empty brick building.

"Post-apocalyptic," George agrees.

Jesse lights a cigarette to take the edge off. He can't help it. "You mind?"

"Go ahead, man."

Jesse takes a long drag. "Did you used to live here?"

George shakes his head. "My grandma did. I used to visit her all the time when my parents were splitting up. The neighborhood wasn't that great, but I loved goin' to her place. I'd take my sister there when she got old enough to ride the bus."

Jesse nods and stays quiet, blows out a puff of smoke. "You got a sister?"

"She's thirteen and already smarter than me." George chuckles. "But our mom can't afford to send her to a special school for gifted kids, so she gets picked on a lot."

"You got a genius sibling too?" Jesse asks. George gives him a curious look. "My little brother's about the same age as your sister. Total genius. She get all the attention too?"

"Not really. I'm the first person in our family to go to college, so my mom's pretty proud of that."

Jesse smiles. "Lucky." He wishes his parents hadn't given up on him, though now he wonders if they ever really did. He wasn't exactly a model son, and he didn't make it easy for them. If he hadn't been so rebellious and stubborn, would he be here now?

George stares off into the distance. "Used to be a grocery store around here. My grandma would take me with her when she went shopping. I remember it 'cause they had this big display of _Darkwing Duck_ mac and cheese. You remember that show?"

Jesse laughs. "Oh God, yeah. I haven't thought about that in forever."

"The shaped macaroni tastes better than the regular kind. You know that, right? 'Cause my mom doesn't believe me."

"Totally. It's 'cause the shaped one calls for more butter. But I don't even front with that shit anymore. My fiancé makes the best mac and cheese on the planet, yo. Kraft can suck my dick."

George chuckles, then: "You're engaged?" Jesse nods, takes another puff. "Does that get weird, havin' to hide the whole Heisenberg thing?"

"Nah. We got, like, zero secrets."

"Another cook? Or drug dealer?"

"Lawyer," Jesse says with a smirk. "But if you get your ass busted don't go callin' me for no favors."

They keep up the small-talk for another hour, and Jesse burns through two more cigarettes before they hit pay dirt. A dude who looks like a slightly less ripped version of Vin Diesel emerges from behind a nearby building. He's wearing a wife-beater and jeans so baggy they could double for something out of MC Hammer's closet. His arms are covered in various tattoos.

"That our guy?" Jesse asks in a murmur.

"One of 'em."

Brick Wall approaches the two and glares down at them. "This ain't your turf."

"I would'a looked you guys up in the drug dealer phone book, but no one ever wrote one," Jesse says. "So I improvised."

"I know you," Brick Wall says, pointing at George with a finger that looks like a sausage, "but you"—pointing at Jesse now—"who are you?"

_Game time._ "You know exactly who I am," Jesse says, stepping into the role of Heisenberg. "I'm the cook. I'm the guy whose product you want so bad you're willing to beat my guys up to get it."

Brick Wall narrows his eyes. "Heisenberg's dead, _ése_," he says, but there's a tremor in his voice. "You're just some punk copycat."

"If that's true, how come you guys ain't cookin' your own meth? I mean, if I'm just some copycat, why bother goin' after my product?"

"We cook our own," Brick Wall says, like he's offended by the accusation.

"At first, yeah. But then you realized it was more profitable to just beat these guys up and steal their shit, right? Corner the market."

Brick Wall folds his arms over his barrel of a chest. "So what do you want? Why you on our turf like you tryin' to make a sale?"

"'Cause I am. Well, actually, I wanna make you a deal. See, now that I run this crew, you're not gonna be knockin' my guys around anymore. You want our product, it's gonna be a straight-up business transaction. Now we need distribution, and you guys got prime territory. We're sittin' on a pound of meth we can't sell, but we think maybe you'd be interested."

"And what if I say 'fuck you'?"

Jesse spreads his hands. "Then we stop cooking. Our ninety-six point two percent pure meth vanishes into thin air. Now you can go back to cookin' your own, but you get, what, seventy percent? If you're lucky. And it ain't my product. You can copy it, but it's still just a cheap imitation."

Brick Wall laughs. "So? People'll buy it. Supply and demand."

"A purer product means customers pay more. And you got more to sell, 'cause higher purity means a greater yield." Jesse frowns. "Is there somebody higher up I can talk to? 'Cause I don't think this is gettin' through."

Brick Wall doesn't like that. He fists a hand in George's shirt and yanks him close. "How 'bout I just waste your boy instead?"

"You touch any of my guys and I'll make sure you end up like what's-his-face. Merritt, was it? Dude went down like a bitch." Jesse's really banking on the idea that these people will be scared of him if they think he killed Merritt. Of course, there's other, less pleasant possibilities down that road, but Jesse's winging it here. Heisenberg was all about risk, right?

Brick Wall drops George and gapes at Jesse. "You're the guy?"

Jesse smirks. Yeah, he likes the awed reverence of respect he gets in this world. He hates that he likes it, but it's a rush of power nonetheless. "We gonna talk business now?"

Brick Wall stares him down, then after a terrifying moment of silence, says, "So talk."

"Bring your guys to the lounge on South 67th. We'll bring ours. Thirty-five large for the pound. Two o'clock tomorrow. Don't be late."

"Or else what?" Brick Wall scoffs.

Jesse stares him down for a moment. He thinks he can sense the way Brick Wall's testicles shrivel up into his body. "Just show up."

* * *

Saul's been lying awake for an hour trying to will his eyelids to grow heavy, but it's just not happening. How can he sleep when his brain won't stop imagining all the ways tomorrow's deal could go wrong? Jesse's got his back to Saul, sleeping peacefully beside him. Saul wonders how the kid does it. Maybe being knee-deep in awful shit on a daily basis taught Jesse how to compartmentalize. Saul's always had a couple degrees of separation from that world, never getting his hands too dirty. Not anymore.

Saul slips out of bed, careful not to disturb Jesse's slumber. His heart's beating much too fast now, his brow stippled with sweat. He needs fresh air.

He creeps down the stairs and sneaks out into the back yard. The night air is crisp and sweet in his lungs. Saul sits on the bench, draws his knees to his chest to keep his feet off the cold concrete. He stares up at the night sky through the trees, the canopy of stars above him, and reminds himself of the beautiful future they're going to make together. He'll marry Jesse someplace extravagant and exciting—screw what he said before about being understated—and they'll live a normal, easy-going life like everyone else. Jesse will make a great father; Saul's not so sure about himself, but Jesse's enthusiasm makes him want to try.

He startles a bit and turns at the sound of the porch door sliding open. Jesse flashes him a small smile. "What're you doin' out here, baby?"

There's that curl of heat in his stomach again. "I needed some air."

"There's air inside," Jesse says, sitting beside him.

"I like a view with my air."

Jesse reaches over and takes Saul's hand in his own. "Can't sleep?"

"Not exactly. What about you?"

Jesse shakes his head, leans against Saul's shoulder. He plays with Saul's fingers as he speaks. "I wish I didn't have to be him to do this..."

"You're not him, Jesse."

"I know, but it's gettin' easier to pretend."

Saul squeezes Jesse's hand. "This time tomorrow night it'll be over, and you'll never have to step into his shoes again."

Jesse considers that for a moment. "You think it means anything that I like the respect I get when I'm him?"

"Everybody likes to be respected. That hardly makes you a bad person." Saul tries another avenue. "What's your goal when we have kids? I mean, what do you wanna accomplish with them by the time they're grown?"

Jesse plucks at his lower lip with his free hand. "I want them to feel loved, safe... I want them to be better than me so they don't have to go through all the shit I did."

"That doesn't sound like a bad person to me."

"You can care about your family and still be rotten."

Saul shakes his head. "Rot ripples out and touches everything. The people who speak the loudest about their love for their kids or their family are usually the ones with the most to hide."

Jesse doesn't say anything; Saul wonders about the thoughts in Jesse's head.

"You're gonna be fine, Jess'," Saul reassures him. "I'll keep you in line."

Jesse half-smiles. "I hope so."

* * *

Jesse arrives at the meeting spot and finds Brad's crew already seated in the outdoor seating area. He forces up a fake smile. There's a grey messenger bag at Brad's feet that Jesse's assuming contains the product, since no one else is carrying a bag big enough to hold the pound of meth they're transporting. Jesus. Doing a drug deal in broad daylight. They might as well have gift-wrapped themselves on the DEA's doorstep.

"They're not gonna kill us, are they?" Doug asks.

Jesse shakes his head. "We're too out in the open. They wouldn't risk it."

Jesse glances at a potted plant. There's most likely a camera in there, planted ahead of time by Buck and Billy Ray. And that's just one of the obvious cameras. Jesse swallows thickly, plays it casual as he scouts the area for surveillance. But he won't spot them. He wonders how many there are. Due to all the construction, this isn't a high-traffic area. Shit, maybe they're hiding in construction vehicles. That would be dope.

"You sure these guys are gonna show?" Brad asks. Mr. Patient.

"Yeah, they'll show. There's no point in getting us to stand around here lookin' like dumbasses."

Jesse takes a cigarette out and flicks on the lighter. He reminds himself that this is how it must be. Sending these kids to prison is infinitely better than letting them get killed over turf disputes or product envy. Maybe they can cut a deal.

Jesse remembers his parents' orange-and-white tabby cat Mac. He'd only been about five or six years old when he came home from school and learned Mac had been hit by a car. His parents were distraught—the cat was older than Jesse was—but there was nothing that could be done for poor Mac. They made the tearful decision to euthanize him, put him out of his misery in the most humane way possible. This is sort of the same rationale, Jesse thinks. It's not easy, but it's better than the alternative.

One by one, sleek, shiny sportscars pull into the parking lot. "This must be them," Jesse says. He recognizes Brick Wall getting out of one of the cars. A few more muscle-bound men climb out of their own vehicles and follow his lead. Shit, is Brick Wall the leader? Maybe these guys are dumber than Jesse thought.

Jesse takes one last drag off the cigarette before stubbing it out on the concrete. "Show time," he mumbles, psyching himself up. Goodbye, Jesse Pinkman; hello, Heisenberg.

Brick Wall and his crew approach the table. Jesse gives them the eye. "You're late, yo."

One of Brick Wall's cronies—a dude with the saggiest jeans Jesse's ever seen—laughs. "Oh, man, c'mon, let's ice this motherfucker."

Brick Wall shoots Saggy a glare and silences him. "Show some respect. This is Heisenberg."

The last time Jesse was involved in a drug deal where someone spoke out of line there was a beating involved. Jesse thinks this is a slight improvement.

He wills his legs to stop shaking. "That's right. Now break it out."

"You first."

No point in arguing. Jesse steps aside so Brad can approach the group. He struggles to breathe as Brad hands the messenger bag to Brick Wall. Jesse stands his ground, reminds himself this is the only way to keep Saul safe. There are five of these guys, and each of them would kill Saul in a minute if they knew he killed Merritt. They have an inside source with the police; how easy would it be to request Merritt's case file and find Saul's name...

The only way to ensure the White Death members are locked away is to lead these college kids to the slaughter. Kind of puts things in perspective when he looks at it that way.

Brick Wall snatches the bag out of Brad's hand, flips it open and inspects the contents. "Nice, nice. You're all right, man. What do you say we make this a, uh, ongoing relationship?"

Brad looks skeptical. "What're you talking about?"

"You bring me another pound next week."

Eden gasps. "We don't have the supplies for that!"

Jesse swings his head around to look at her. "Ay yo, why don't you let me handle this?" he snaps. He turns back to Brick Wall and his cronies. "Give us the money and you got a deal."

Brick Wall hesitates, and for a split-second Jesse worries he's lost him. But Brick Wall reaches behind him, and Saggy hands Jesse an orange backpack bulging with what he presumes is the thirty-five grand.

Jesse shakes his head, folds his arms over his chest. "I don't like being handed things."

Brad takes the bag instead. Jesse hates himself for the spark of satisfaction that ignites in his chest. Brad unzips the bag to make sure they're not being stiffed. Jesse catches a glimpse of the stacks of bills inside.

Out of time.

Jesse's ready for the swarm of police and DEA agents that dives in around them, but it still makes his heart ache and flares up instinctual panic. Buck arrests Jesse, slaps the cuffs around his wrists and shoves him a little too hard into the police cruiser. Jesse watches the crowd of officers arrest each gang member and corral them into police vehicles. A DEA agent confiscates the money and the pound of meth.

"Looks like a good haul," Buck says. "Way to go, kid."

Jesse stares out at the chaos he created. He doesn't feel much like a hero.

He ends up riding to the police station with George, which makes it pretty much impossible to compartmentalize. George seems like he's on the verge of a panic attack, shaking and breathing in shuddery, quick breaths.

"Just breathe slow," Jesse tells him, the words nearly catching in his throat. "It's gonna be okay."

"What do we do?" George asks in a hushed whisper. "You've been arrested before, right?"

Jesse shuts his eyes in pain. His betrayal feels like a ghost sitting between them, an invisible companion George can't quite see yet. "If they offer you a deal, take it. Make sure they get your record expunged."

George looks at him in wonder. "How are you so chill about this?" He pauses, as if remembering something. "Shit, that's right. You're engaged to a lawyer." He breathes out a deep sigh. "Fuck, this is bullshit."

Jesse's eyes water over. He leans his head against the window and lets the tears fall.

The booking process passes by in a haze. Jesse forces himself to shut down—see nothing, hear nothing, _feel_ nothing—to get through it. He can't handle watching these kids getting photographed and fingerprinted too, knowing he's the log jammed onto the track that sent their lives off the rails.

Jesse fights for control the entire time, clinging to that inner life-preserver of strength. Just a little longer, then he can go home and break down. He has to be capable of that much.

Billy Ray takes him into an isolated room near the back of the building, away from those he betrayed. Jesse sniffles and wipes his face. "Your car ought'a be in the impound by now," Billy Ray says. "You want me to bring it over?"

Jesse nods. "Can you—can you sneak me out the back? I don't—" A sob hiccups in his throat. "I can't let them see me..."

"Sure." Billy Ray lays a hand on Jesse's shoulder. "Oh! You might want these." He gives Jesse a plastic bag filled with his cell phone, keys, cigarettes, lighter, and wallet.

Jesse reaches in, pockets the items one by one. "Thanks..."

Billy Ray shows Jesse to the rear exit. Jesse pushes his way out the door. The back of the building opens up to a small parking lot, probably where all the cops park their cars. He won't be discovered here. He slumps against the building and draws his knees up to his chin. He can feel his control slipping.

"I'll be right back," Billy Ray says.

Jesse hears the door shut behind him. The sobs start to build in his chest again. With shaky fingers, he takes out his cell phone and switches the screen on. Jesse sees his background photo and manages a smile. The picture's an aerial selfie of him and Saul lying on their bed together. He opens his picture folder and scrolls through the photographs. Most of them are of Bark Lee in various poses and costumes, some depict miscellany he saw that reminded him of Saul or made him laugh, others are snapshots of Saul either with Jesse or Bark Lee. Jesse feels a twitch of a smile. That ridiculously dorky man is the reason Jesse endured all of this. It's hard to feel too much remorse when he frames it like that, but guilt coils in his stomach nonetheless.

This is a decent way to keep the waterworks at bay, so Jesse toggles his messages and scrolls through his correspondence with Saul, starting from the point their relationship transcended "awkward roommates" and became "awkward boyfriends." He grins at some of Saul's dumb jokes and the occasional heart-warming nugget of honesty. It's like watching their relationship develop through bad puns, emoji, and the occasional misplaced hashtag. Jesse doesn't even remember having some of these conversations.

He reads through the time he sent clumsy sexts while Saul was at work, their Angry Birds score battle, the day they spent in bed playing Draw Something, and his silly captioned photos of Bark Lee. Every now and then the sobs will resurface, hiccuping against his lungs like a screen door in a hurricane, but he distracts himself with the reason he's fighting through the pain threatening to drown him.

Billy Ray shows up with Jesse's car about thirty minutes later. Jesse stands on shaky legs and digs his keys out of his pocket. "You good to drive?" Billy Ray asks.

Wrecking now would be like getting tackled at the ten-yard line. "I'll be okay."

"You did good, kid. Now go home to Saul. He needs you."

Jesse doesn't doubt that.

* * *

Saul hears Jesse's car roll to a stop in the driveway. The ignition switches off, and Saul waits for the sound of a key turning the lock in the front door.

Nothing.

He peers out the front window and sees Jesse slumped over the steering wheel, sobs racking his small frame. _Oh, kid..._ All the pent-up frustration and emotion of the last few weeks must have finally spilled over. The dam is broken. And maybe there's some relief there too, because their ordeal is finished.

Saul goes outside and opens the car door. Jesse looks at him with wide, wet eyes, like he's remorseful for something. It's all Saul can do to take Jesse into his waiting arms and let him cry. Jesse weeps into Saul's chest, staining his shirt with tears. His body shudders from the force of his sobs.

"Are we safe?" Saul asks.

Jesse nods and clutches Saul tighter. Saul helps him into the house, lets Jesse drop onto the couch and cry. "It's all over, Jesse," Saul murmurs, holding Jesse in the cradle of his arms. "You did it."

Jesse sniffles and chokes on a sob building in his throat. He buries his face in his hands, whimpers a pathetic sound of agony. Saul's no stranger to emotional outbursts, but when Jesse cries, God, it's just too much. Even a baby's wailing doesn't hold a candle to the way the sound of Jesse's crying stabs Saul straight through the heart. He'd do anything to make it all better again.

"Talk to me, kid. Is something wrong?"

Jesse tries to quiet his jumpy lungs so he can answer. "Those kids..." he blubbers out. "I ruined five peoples' lives just to save ours..."

Saul sighs. "No, you didn't. They did that themselves."

"They were cooking my recipe," Jesse says, like that means something.

"And if Blue Sky didn't exist they would've cooked something else. You gotta stop blaming yourself for everything, Jesse. This isn't on you."

He wipes his eyes with a hand, smearing tears over his cheeks. "Maybe I didn't make 'em cook, but...it was my choice to betray their trust."

"You were working as an informant. Betraying trust is part of the package."

"What if I just—fucked them over just so you and me could be happy?"

Saul scoffs. "Are you serious? These are fully-functioning, legal adults, and they chose to break the law."

"Yeah, well, all they did was cook and sell meth. I mean, I'm still two miracles short of sainthood, right?"

Saul stares at him, stunned. "Do you remember _everything_ I've ever said to you, or just the worst of it?" He shakes it off. "Look, these aren't the first 'good' kids to screw their lives up, and they won't be the last. None of that's your fault. Would you really rather have thrown away your entire future, the future you fought tooth and nail for? C'mon, Jesse, you gotta have rose-tinted glasses welded onto your face to think that would have done any good."

Jesse's mouth pinches into a frown, like he wants to say, "You don't know that for sure," or something else stupidly Pollyanna. Saul's never understood how Jesse can have such a naïve, bleeding-heart outlook, but, if Saul's honest, that's one of the things he loves most about Jesse. Even after facing down the worst of the darkness, Jesse can still see the light and hope and beauty in the world; Saul's a touch too cynical for that, but even he sees all those things in Jesse.

"There was no way out," Jesse says. His body's still quaking, but it's much more controlled now. "If I stopped the deal, those guys would'a found out you killed Merritt, and..." He sniffles, the furrow of his brow pronouncing the little "v" between his eyes. "I had to do it."

"See? It was the only option." Saul reaches out and cups a hand around the curve of Jesse's cheek. "I think this is all about Walt." Jesse's breath catches in his throat at the name. "You see these kids doing the wrong thing for the right reason, just like he did at first, and, I don't know, maybe you wanna save them because you couldn't save Walt."

Tears leak from Jesse's eyes. Saul brushes the wetness away with his thumb. "Did I do the wrong thing for the right reason?" Jesse asks in a whimper.

"Hey, if Walt hadn't done the wrong thing for the right reason we probably wouldn't be here together." Saul thinks about the road untraveled and feels a shiver. "So maybe it's not always such a bad thing."

"You're drawin' an awful thin line."

"The world's made up of thin lines, kid."

Jesse takes a deep breath. "I thought it would feel good havin' all this over with."

"Maybe it doesn't feel good right now. But it will." Saul gives him a hopeful smile. "It will when we get married. And y'know what? There's a child out there who's gonna get adopted—or even be _born_—because of us. And maybe we'll have more than one, so that's two, three, four kids who get to have a good home with two loving parents. Don't you think that makes it all worth it?"

Jesse blinks, stunned like he never thought about that before. "You want four kids?"

Saul laughs. "That's all you got out of that?"

"No, I was listening. That just...surprised me, I guess." Jesse smiles, looks down at the way Saul's twining his fingers with Jesse's.

"See? This is just the beginning, Jesse," Saul says before capturing Jesse's mouth under his own.

* * *

_One week later..._

"You sure you guys can't stay longer?" Jesse whines, leaning against the truck. Buck and Billy Ray have the pickup bed loaded with boxes that wouldn't fit in the moving van. Bark Lee stands between them, his tail wagging at high velocity.

"The case is over, kid," Buck says. "Our job is done."

Jesse's brow creases. "What happened to them?"

"Funny how people start singin' like canaries when they're facin' down 20 years," Buck says. "Ain't no honor among thieves."

Saul watches the way Jesse's expression caves in. He wishes Jesse hadn't asked, but the kid would've found out anyway.

"'Course they all got good lawyers to cook 'em up some solid deals, so your guys come out smellin' like roses compared to those White Death boys," Buck explains. "Turns out Merritt wasn't the only one involved in the murder of Shawn Wesson. And considerin' Gilligan's involvement with them, well, the DA came down pretty hard on those guys."

Jesse rubs the back of his neck. Saul wants to hug him but isn't sure that's the right move here. "He _was_ involved?" Saul asks.

"Yeah, once he learned we had them dead to rights, he confessed how they had him under their thumb, arrestin' rival gang members and all that shit. Said they threatened his family so he wouldn't stop givin' them inside information and lettin' their guys slide under the radar," Billy Ray says.

Just as Saul had figured, then. He's getting pretty good at this detective stuff.

"So you're goin' back to Lincoln?" Jesse asks. "Guess they didn't like you diggin' up dirt on one of their guys."

"On the contrary," Billy Ray says. "They wanted us to stay here. But no place like home, right?"

Saul shivers and feels the tremor spread. Oh Christ... The tape. Buck and Billy Ray aren't going home because all's well that ends well; they got fired because they lost evidence.

The blood drains from Saul's face. He swallows thickly, rubs Jesse's back. "We'll miss you guys. Maybe we'll actually get some sleep around here." He forces out a chuckle.

Jesse kneels as Bark Lee approaches. "We'll miss you too, buddy," he says, scratching the dog behind the ears. Bark Lee moves closer, and Jesse wraps his arms around the dog's neck, hugging him to his chest. Jesse murmurs something in Bark Lee's ear that Saul can't make out and buries his face in the pup's fur. When Jesse looks up again, his eyes are damp.

"Y'know," Buck starts, shifting his weight from one leg to the other, "considerin' how much he seems to like y'all, would you two ever consider takin' care of Bark Lee?"

"If you drop into town sometime, sure," Jesse says.

"I was thinkin' more of a permanent arrangement."

Saul opens his mouth, closes it. "You're giving us the dog?"

"If it's not too much trouble. I'm more than happy to keep 'im, but y'all could probably use some practice before you have kids of your own."

"I think a dog and a child are vastly different—"

"Dude, shut up," Jesse cuts in. "We'll totally take him. If –if you want, I mean."

Buck smiles and moves for the truck bed. He drags out a box that says "Bark Lee" on the side and sets it at Jesse's feet. "All his stuff's inside: food, leashes, health records, clothes."

It's absolutely Jesse's fault that Bark Lee has any clothes to speak of. But Saul thinks that's endearing as hell, though he'll never admit it out loud.

Jesse looks at Buck with wide eyes. "You sure? I thought he was, like, your kid."

Buck laughs. "I got three kids—two already flown the nest and the youngest about to turn fifteen."

"You have actual kids?" Jesse asks in disbelief. "How come you never mentioned them?"

"Kinda defeats the whole 'undercover' thing, wouldn't it?"

"That's a pretty solid point." Jesse takes Bark Lee's face in his hands. "You're gonna live with us now!"

The dog might actually _smile_.

"If y'all ever wanna go back to usin' your real names, you're in the clear," Billy Ray says. "We sent the case files to APD. They won't bother you, not after you helped take down two heavy-hittin' drug rings and a dirty cop. You boys are safe now. We took care of everything."

Confusion swirls in Saul's brain. How could Buck and Billy Ray have that kind of pull after a suspension? Nothing about this adds up at all.

Buck, as if sensing Saul's inner clusterfuck, says, "Saul, c'mere for a sec'," motions with his head to Saul's front yard.

Saul follows him on shaky legs. "You gonna give me some parenting advice?"

"Naw, I don't think you need it."

"And you're basing that off, what, how I treat the dog?"

Buck stops when they reach Saul's silver Pontiac. Saul can almost see where the blood had been, or maybe it's just his imagination playing tricks on him. "I'm basin' that off what you did with the tape."

Saul feels his chest hitch and get caught. "What—what're you talking about?"

"I know why you were really there at our place that night. You staged the burglary so you could lift the tape and keep us from gettin' in trouble when it went missin'. And I appreciate the consideration, but you didn't have to do all that."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Saul says in a voice that couldn't sound more feeble.

"Yeah, Saul, you do. The only reason Bark Lee was able to bite Merritt was 'cause the back door was open—'cause he didn't expect to find somebody else in the house. He got spooked. If he was alone he would'a shot Bark Lee immediately. Somebody had to be there already to stop him. They found the bullet—the one that hit you—in the wall near the hallway. You were shot from behind. The direction of the blood drops says you were running away."

Saul finds it hard to breathe.

"Funny thing is, that lamp? Your prints were nowhere on it, but your blood sure was." Buck gives him a strange look. "Now, how's that possible unless you were wearin' gloves? Why would you put on gloves to investigate somethin' weird goin' on next door?"

Something inside Saul's chest lurches to the side.

"You were already there to stage the robbery, and after you killed Merritt, I dunno, maybe panic took over and you just snatched the disc out of the DVD tray. You probably couldn't lift that box 'cause of your injury and the blood loss."

Saul doesn't think he's even breathing anymore.

"I mean, your whole story about goin' to the car to get your phone was kinda hinky anyway, but I figured, 'hey, he's lost a lot of blood, probably ain't thinkin' straight.' But I had a hunch. So I looked in your trunk, and I found the tape. And the gloves."

Mystery solved. Saul's not sure whether to be relieved for Buck and Billy Ray's careers or terrified for himself.

Saul lets out a weak chuckle. "Did you get a warrant? Pretty sure that doesn't fall under the in-plain-sight rule."

Buck rolls his eyes like Saul's being an idiot. "Only applies if you're usin' what you find as evidence."

Saul's stunned silent. He gets it now. This is entirely off the record.

"You're not in trouble, Saul," Buck says. "You saved my dog. Merritt would'a shot him if you hadn't been there. And you kept a lot of important information from fallin' into the wrong hands."

Saul stays silent.

"Look, I get that you were tryin' to protect Jesse. But whatever's on that tape didn't matter to us. Not like you think. Jesse's been through enough, and he'd swear up and down that you ain't Saul Goodman, that he made the whole thing under duress. He'd get the tape thrown out and we'd have nothin'. C'mon, you gotta know all this, right?"

Saul just sighs. "It's like I said before: you protect them, no matter what."

A small smile tugs at the corner of Buck's mouth. "You're gonna be a hell of a dad someday."

"What?"

Buck shrugs his shoulders. "I'm just sayin', if you'll go this far for your boyfriend, I'm kinda scared what you'd do to protect your kids."

Saul's a little scared himself.

* * *

"Seriously? Dude, I'm embarrassed for you," Jesse says around laughter.

"Would you prefer I go to a strip club and drink 'til my liver explodes?"

They're in Saul's bedroom, sprawled out in the Papasan. Bark Lee's curled up at their feet like a furry footrest. Faint music drifts out of the speakers as Saul and Jesse lean against each other. Saul's got one arm wrapped around Jesse, his hand lingering at Jesse's hip and every so often pushing under his t-shirt to touch his skin. Saul's on his phone showing Jesse pictures of the resort he hopes will be their bachelor party, marriage, and honeymoon locale.

Jesse's a little less than impressed. "Yeah, actually, I would."

"Well, I don't feel like bemoaning the end of my single days."

"Said no dude ever. Hell, I don't even think women say that. You're a freak."

"And you agreed to marry me anyway."

"Go ahead and gloat, Weirdy McWeirderton." Jesse says. Saul laughs. "You're the one who wants to get hitched in Boston instead of New York. There is literally nothing cool in Massachusetts."

"Celtics, Red Sox, New England Patriots?"

"Since when do you give a shit about sports?"

Saul frowns like he's been caught in a lie. "There's the bar from _Cheers_..."

Jesse drags a hand over his face. "Oh my God." Saul's a lost cause, really. "First of all, New York has, like, way better sports teams. And I'll take your _Cheers_ and raise you _Friends _and _Seinfeld_. Plus, yo, I've actually been there, remember? I'm not just pullin' this outta my ass. There's a reason those shirts say 'I heart New York' and not 'I heart Massachusetts.'"

"Probably 'cause they save on lettering."

Jesse gives him a look. "You got a smart-ass answer for everything, don't you?"

"Yep." Saul grins. "It's too late to back out, by the way. I'll solder that ring to your finger the first chance I get."

"Yeah, you can't be Four Divorce Guy, huh? This has to be the marriage that sticks or you're totally screwed."

"I think we'll be fine. I've never been this certain about a marriage before. Y'know, with age comes wisdom and whatnot."

Jesse snuggles closer. "Will I get to meet your family?"

"I guess I could toss 'em an invite. My brother's got an irritating sense of humor though."

"Gee, I have no idea what that's like," Jesse says, rolling his eyes.

The song flowing through the speakers changes. Jesse groans and drops his head back. "I could totally live the rest of my life without hearin' another damn Zeppelin song."

Saul gasps as if Jesse's just committed the worst possible sacrelige; Jesse bites back the urge to laugh. "I'm gonna ignore that for the sake of my own well-being." He gives Jesse what can only be described as a bitch-face. "So, what, are you more of a Motown kind of guy? 'Cause, lucky you, Robert Plant had a post-Zeppelin project—"

Jesse makes a loud, long, exasperated groaning sound until Saul stops talking.

"You just don't know how to like things," Saul says with offense.

Jesse smiles and slumps further into the cushion. The hand on Jesse's hip edges underneath his t-shirt, and Saul glides his thumb in small circles over the jut of Jesse's pelvis. Jesse sighs happily, then he laughs to himself, as if privy to a joke only he knows the punchline to.

"What is it?"

"I was just thinkin' about how wrong Mr. White was."

There's a curl of a smile in Saul's voice. "Oh?"

"He was always callin' me a junkie, y'know, even after I'd been clean for a while. I remember one time he said 'how soon would you go back to using?' if I got outta the game, 'cause he didn't want me to leave. But I was around the stuff a bunch the last couple weeks, and I didn't even touch it." If Jesse was really as much of a "pathetic junkie" as Mr. White claimed, would he have abstained from using when the drug was right in front of him? Given the stress he was under, he's amazed he didn't give into the temptation to take the edge off.

Saul smiles and holds him tighter. "I'm not a big fan of 'I told you so,' but I'll make an exception just this once."

"And he said I had nothing in my life. That I never learned how to think, how stupid I am. But he was wrong, Saul. 'Cause if I was as worthless as Mr. White said I was, you wouldn't have asked me to marry you."

"And the last horse crosses the finish line." Saul grins and kisses Jesse's cheek. "It's about time you figured it out, kid."

"Better late than never, huh?" Saul likes that one. He laughs, and Jesse cuddles closer, snuggling into the space between them. "I guess I should thank him 'cause, in a way, he's made me happier than I've ever been."

Jesse laces a hand with Saul's own. He thinks about how they made it here, the journey from barely even friends to betrothed. He thinks about Jane and Andrea and Gale and Brock and Drew Sharp. He thinks about Brad and George and Doug and Eden and Savannah and wonders if life behind bars will be kinder to them than Jack Welker's gang was to him. He thinks about Mr. White's words in the desert:

_ A clean slate. Just think about it. You get a job. Something legitimate. Something you like. Meet a girl. Start a family, even. Hell, you're still so damn young. And what's here for you now anyway? I tell ya. If I could, I'd trade places. A whole lifetime ahead of you with a chance to hit the reset button. In a few years, this might all feel like nothing more than a bad dream._

Maybe Mr. White was right about something after all.

* * *

One month later, both the Pinkman household and Charles McGill receive the same thick ivory envelope in the mail, with the same stiff, elegantly-lettered card inside that reads:

_Jesse Bruce Pinkman_

_and_

_Saul James McGill_

_Request the honor of your presence at the celebration of their marriage_

_Friday, the thirteenth of April_

_Two thousand and twelve_

_Five o'clock in the evening_

_1567 Broadway_

_New York, NY_

* * *

_We must be willing to let go of the life we planned so as to have the life that is waiting for us._

― Joseph Campbell


End file.
